


Cruel River

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Attempted Murder, Blood and Injury, Child Death (Off-Screen), Drowning, Family Secrets, Found Family, Friendship/Love, Gaelic Language, Gaslighting, Ghosts, Graphic Description of Corpses, Grief/Mourning, Hanging, Haunted Castle, Hypothermia, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Memory Loss, Minor Character Deaths, Multi, Politics, Psychological Horror, Scots Gaelic, Scottish Highlands, Scottish history, Slow Romance, Strangulation, Suspense, Violence, War (off-screen)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 67,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29686968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Draco inherits a castle deep in the Scottish highlands, and discovers it’s haunted by more than just ghosts.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 15
Kudos: 34
Collections: H/D Cluefest 2021





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> With gratitude to my beta reader, Q.

Lucius Malfoy was found dead on a bright, cold June morning. The sky was a pale and cloudless blue, but the air still had bite; summer never truly came to the distant ends of the Scottish highlands. Agsworth Castle looked pretty as a postcard upon the meadows of Caithness, and the lawns were green and lush with spring rain. It was the groundskeeper — arriving early to discuss plans for a hedge maze — who found the body. He refused to speak of it, however, and would not give the smallest detail to anyone, not even his friends.

Rumours abounded in the local parish. Lucius Malfoy was found in the study, they said, his hands clawing at the air as if to fend off some grotesque demon. He was found in his late wife’s drawing room, her portrait clutched to his chest, blood spattered on the rug. He was found in the gardens, a red rose in one hand, morning dew delicately resting upon the petals, and it would have looked terribly beautiful if not for the expression of horror etched into his face. He died by the river in his nightclothes.

And _that_ was the one rumour unaccompanied by dramatic gestures and sordid details and demands for retellings at the local inn. It was spoken almost like something sacred. Something quiet. Something forbidden. It was whispered by people, as though something might overhear them. Something might come dancing dark and low on the northern winds. Something might crawl its way out of the river and drift into the parish on the evening fog. It was spoken as a single sentence, without embellishment.

_He died by the river in his nightclothes._

Nobody could say exactly why it struck terror into their hearts. Just that… well, it was the river. Cold and dark and winding through the forests beyond Agsworth Castle. There had been stories. Of how some parts of the riverbanks were so fallow nothing grew there, not even reeds. How some parts of the forest were silent and even the birds wouldn’t sing. 

If Lucius had indeed died by the river, he would not have been the first. There had been other incidents over the years. The locals never spoke of such things, though they were the sort of stories that would keep any little parish alive with rumours for years. Sometimes, on a cold night, a whisper seemed to drift into the streets and over cars and fences, caught on the evening fog: _Meet me by the river._

The locals locked their doors and windows, and never spoke of the voice. Same as they never spoke of the fog. Same as they never spoke of the river.

_He died by the river in his nightclothes._


	2. The Clock-Winder

Draco takes a single glance at the property deed on his desk, says, “It’s an expensive problem,” and pushes it away with the end of his fountain pen.

His solicitor purses his lips. “It’s a fourteenth century estate. Historically, a number of significant events have occurred there. It was a strategic stronghold for the McErler clan. One imagines it holds _remarkable_ history.”

Draco surveys his solicitor. He’s an elderly man named Binns; Draco’s forgotten his first name but he’s certain it’s as equally bland as the surname. He has tufty white hair and a ruddy complexion, and he’s always dressed in a tweed blazer. Draco’s willing to bet half his portfolio that Binns likes to go for weekend walks along the moors, where he says daft things like “Ah! This air does you good,” and “What a tremendous view,” while gesturing at the ugly brown marshlands. 

“How unfortunate, then,” Draco says, “that I, and not you, should inherit it.”

“Yes, rather,” Binns says a bit curtly. Draco pauses and looks at him again. Binns clears his throat and fumbles for a handkerchief, coughs dryly into it, then stuffs it back into his pocket. “Now. Onto the matter at hand. Your aunt has abandoned the castle. The sixth relative to leave it. The _sixth._ In twelve _months_. You haven’t got many options left, Draco. Your father left you the castle with the intention _you_ should reside there — ”

“Mr Malfoy,” Draco says. “My father is dead. Now _I’m_ Mr Malfoy. You never called my father by his first name, did you?”

Binns blinks at him with rheumy eyes. He fumbles for his handkerchief again, wheezes into it, then says, “If you prefer to be called Mr Malfoy — ”

“I do.”

Another dry, short cough. “Of course,” Binns says to his handkerchief. “In any case. I understand you quite enjoy life here in London, but perhaps a change of scenery will do you good. A bit of fresh air.”

 _Definitely_ likes weekend walks on the moors, Draco thinks. Probably has an elderly and ill-tempered terrier. A wife named Maud. Eats prunes and has a pair of reading glasses for the crossword in _The Sunday Times._

“I’ve no desire for a change of scenery,” Draco says. “I’ve made that perfectly clear.”

Binns rescues the deed from the edge of the desk. There’s a photograph clipped to the front of it, and he straightens it with fussy movements. “You’re running out of relatives, I’m afraid. If no relative is willing to lease it from you, and you’re not willing to live there yourself...well, I can contact an agency — ”

“A _real estate_ agency?” Draco makes a quick, sharp gesture with his fountain pen. Ink droplets spatter in a fine, perfect line across the desk; the last one lands on the photograph of Agsworth Castle. Binns peers at it, then dabs it with his handkerchief. “For the ancestral seat of my family? Renting it to _strangers?_ Putting it in a _newspaper_ listing?”

“As I said, no other relatives are…forthcoming. Your Aunt Andromeda absolutely refuses to return.”

Draco rests the pen on its little stand. “More nonsense about cold spots and rattling chains? Ghosts peeping in the windows at night? Good lord, the utter _rubbish_ people spout!” 

Binns opens and closes his mouth. “Have you been there, Mr Malfoy?”

“No. My mother always said it was cold and miserable. I spent my summers in the Black family home, in Gloucestershire.”

“Well, _I’ve_ been there. Once or twice, when your father called me there for business. It is a…characterful place. One’s imagination might easily run wild there.”

“Characterful,” Draco repeats flatly.

“Rather.” Binns hesitates. “It’s a very striking estate, Mr Malfoy. Perhaps you ought to see it for yourself.”

“See if you can find another cousin or a decrepit great-uncle. Someone who can act as caretaker in my absence,” Draco says, standing up. “If that’s all...”

Binns looks at him a moment longer, then picks up the deed and tucks it into his attaché. He leaves the photograph on the desk. “Very well, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco watches him shuffle to the door, then says abruptly, “May I ask your wife’s name?”

Binns pauses and gives Draco a bewildered look. “Maureen.”

Damn. So close.

Binns closes the door behind himself, his footsteps fading down the hallway. Draco hardly notices. He won’t go to Agsworth, he thinks. He _won’t_. He’s perfectly happy in London, thanks very much.

He neatens his desk, straightens his ledger, and absently drops the photograph of Agsworth Castle into the bin. 

He _does_ hate being wrong.

* * *

Leonard Black is the next relative to move into Agsworth Castle. A Malfoy is preferable for the ancestral home, Draco thinks, but any port in a storm. And it certainly seems that a storm is looming on the horizon.

Leonard is a bespectacled accountant in his thirties. Draco’s never met him; he’s a third cousin twice removed. But his proximity to Draco’s family isn’t the selection criteria for living at Agsworth Castle. His rationality, on the other hand, _is._ An accountant from the tidy suburbs of Swindon is the _perfect_ tenant for an allegedly haunted castle. Leonard Black will certainly not flee into a waiting taxi at two in the morning, claiming he won’t spend another minute in that cursed place. 

Three months later, Leonard Black flees into a waiting taxi at two in the morning. He goes directly back to his little flat in Swindon and takes up accountancy again and won’t offer an explanation beyond, “You know where you are with numbers. They don’t try to lure you down to the cellar at midnight.”

Next comes Cornelia Black, a distant cousin. She lasts four months before announcing that she’s “too old for these sorts of shenanigans,” and she departs with a dignified but somewhat skittish farewell. 

Then there’s William Corbett Malfoy-Knight, an elderly gentleman who is the illegitimate son of a philandering great-uncle. The connection is tenuous indeed, yet Draco pins all his hopes on him. William Corbett Malfoy-Knight appears to outlast all his predecessors, until — ten months into his appointment — it comes to light that old Willie had been living at the local inn for the past nine and a half months, and visited the castle just once a week to walk around it and confirm nobody was stealing the silverware before hastily retiring once more to the inn.

“I have, of course, requested his eviction at once, Mr Malfoy,” Binns says to Draco. Summer is arriving in London, too bright and hot against all the concrete and metal and glass. Draco’s getting restless now, and feeling too confined by his suit and tie. “Part of his contract is, of course, actually _residing_ at the estate. This won’t do at all.”

“Who’s next, then?”

“Who’s next?” Binns says blankly.

“On the list.”

“Ah. With…with all due respect, Mr Malfoy…it’s the end of the list.”

Draco pours himself a snifter of brandy and tips the bottle to Binns, who pauses, looking tempted. He’s a brandy man, Draco thinks. Brandy or port. His wife, the dreary Maureen, prefers sherry. 

“Ah…go on, then. It _is_ well after five. I’m surprised you’re still at the office, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco pours a generous nip for Binns and settles back. “Do you like brandy?”

“Hm? Oh, yes.”

“Port?”

“Prefer a good merlot, myself.”

Draco leans against the straight leather back of his chair. “I do hate being wrong,” he says. 

“Just like your father,” Binns murmurs. Draco looks at him; Binns pauses and blinks. “I do apologise. What were we talking about? Ah. The end of the list.”

“Yes. The end of the list.” Draco lifts his glass. “Shall we toast it?”

“Oh. Could I...? Ah, thank you. Just top the glass up, please. Mighty good brandy, Mr Malfoy.”

“Thank you, Mr Binns.”

Binns lifts his glass uncertainly. “So… a new life on the moors, then?”

Draco gives him a smile drier than a good merlot. 

* * *

Draco takes two months to tidy up his affairs and leave London. He hopes, all the while, a most convenient relative will step forward and solve the problem. But no relative surfaces; it seems he truly has reached the end of the list. Unable to bring himself to sell the ancestral home to a stranger, or let it fall into ruin, Draco concedes defeat. He consoles himself with the fact he managed to delay this miserable moment for two years, buying time with the various relatives he’d hoped would stay permanently at Agsworth Castle.

He boards a flight to Scotland on the last day of summer. Whenever he has to leave London, the takeoff is always his favourite bit. He likes watching the city fade from sight. Heathrow gets smaller and smaller. The great sprawl of suburban London vanishes beneath scraps of cloud. It’s a dramatic and busy view of urban life, and it makes a stark comparison with the view during descent. Inverness Airport is a little grey runway surrounded by fields, and the North Sea sends a blustery wind over the asphalt. Overhead, the clouds hang heavy with rain. _Cold and miserable,_ his mother had said.

And he’s not even there yet.

A three-hour train ride later, and he’s standing at an isolated railway halt and wondering if he’s accidentally disembarked at the wrong place. He stands upon a cracked concrete platform that soon peters into darkness. The evening fog is rolling in, clinging damply to his overcoat. 

“Hello?”

His voice echoes a little. _Hello, hello._

Draco brings his hands to his face, breathing warmth into them. He expected a coolness in the highlands, even in the summer, but this is a chill that bites into his bones. His breath drifts silver through the air, mingling with the fog.

He opens his mouth to call out again, then stops. It feels as though he shouldn’t do it. As though, hiding just on the other side of the fog, something is listening intently, waiting for his next call.

 _Idiot,_ he tells himself scathingly. Two seconds in this nowhere village, and he’s already letting the quietness and emptiness get to him. That’s why he likes London. He _hates_ the silence of these places! Not even the comfort of a passing car. The darkness. The vastness of it, the fields and mountains and the way it all seems to _loom_ over him — 

“Hello!” he snaps, and briskly strides along the platform to keep warm, his messenger bag slung over one shoulder. “Hello!”

He pauses and turns his head. A whisper...he’s _sure_ he heard it. 

The fog curls around him. The train has long disappeared into the distance. It’s silent now. He opens his mouth again, then pauses, listening.

A voice. He’s sure of it.

_Meet me..._

Draco reaches into his pocket, fumbling with the crumpled paper. “Mr...” He squints at the paper. “Mr Longbottom? I know the train was delayed, but I’m here now, and...” He trails off. His words echo along the platform, bouncing back to him. _I’m here now..._

He stuffs the paper back into his pocket and gives a little shiver. There it is again. That soft whisper.

_Meet me by the river..._

The voice seems to be coming closer now. There’s a footstep in the fog, and then another. 

Draco pauses, then steps forward.

“The river?” he says. _The river, the river,_ and he can’t tell now if it’s his own voice echoing, or that little whisper again —

A torch beam cuts through the air, startling him, and the fog seems to abruptly retreat. It’s not nearly as opaque as Draco thought it was. Did he imagine it to be heavier and more oppressive than it was? He _mustn’t_ let the stories get to him, he reminds himself crossly. 

“Mr Malfoy?” The voice is loud, trampling over the stillness, and Draco frowns as footsteps near.

“Mr Longbottom, I presume. You can get that torchlight out of my face.”

The torch beam drops to the ground, revealing a brown-haired man with an apologetic expression on his round and freckled face. “Oh, sorry. You can call me Neville. Said you’d be here at six, but it’s getting late now. Oh, haven’t you got any bags?”

“It was all sent ahead. No, thank you, _I’ve_ got it,” Draco says tersely, readjusting his messenger bag as Neville reaches for it. “The train was delayed. I couldn’t get a call through.”

“Oh, no reception in the parish. It’s all landlines and things.”

“Delightful.”

Neville either misses the sarcasm or chooses to ignore it. “Well, let’s get back to the car,” he says cheerfully, but he glances over his shoulder into the fog, and there’s a look of unease in his eyes. “It’s coming up on eight o’clock now, Mr Malfoy, we’d better go to the castle.”

“Lock the doors before nightfall?” Draco quips. “Don’t go into the woods after sundown?”

Neville smiles uncomfortably. “Well. You’re probably tired and hungry, that’s all I meant.”

“You’re the cook, are you?”

“Groundskeeper.”

Draco pauses. 

Oh.

He was the one who found Lucius’s body.

“It’s a very good job, Mr Malfoy,” Neville says earnestly. “Couldn’t ask for a better one. Mr Malfoy — your father, I mean, not you — he was a good employer. Fair. We’re all grateful that you kept us on after the… after the… after it happened. Bit worried you’d sell the place and get rid of us all, so… thank you,” Neville finishes awkwardly. 

“Right,” Draco says vaguely, trying to remember the names Binns gave him and failing miserably. “There’s you, the… the cook...”

“You’ll have to get another one. The cook left after...er...a mishap.”

“And the housekeepers.”

“That’s right. Two of them. Married couple, the Weasleys. They’ve been running the house for years. Take care of it like it’s their own home.”

Draco offers a thin smile. “But it’s not.”

Neville blinks at him. “Oh, no, of course not. I was just saying…they take good care of it.”

They approach the car. It’s an old Invicta, a Black Prince, lovingly restored to its full glory and polished black as onyx, and Draco baulks.

“That’s my father’s car.”

“Pride and joy.” Neville gives it a pat, pauses, then self-consciously lifts the corner of his coat and rubs the faint handprint from the glossy bonnet. “We’ve kept it in good nick. Haven’t brought it out for anyone else,” he adds. “Seemed improper. Thought you’d like to see your father’s car again, though.”

Draco opens the door and gets inside rather stiffly. The cold vinyl squeaks and settles. “There was no need for it.”

Neville pauses and looks at him. “Oh,” he says uncertainly. “Well. I mean… I couldn’t really bring down Ron’s old Anglia. Not to fetch the master of the house. The _proper_ master, not any of those cousins...” He trails off and starts the car, turning the engine a few times. “Sorry. Takes a bit to warm up.” 

They sit in silence. Neville glances at him a few times, then manages to get the car into gear after a few tries. It putters off, bumping over the narrow winding road. Draco sits straight-backed, his hands folded in his lap, staring ahead. The headlights seem to barely scratch the darkness. 

“Original headlights,” Neville says, as if reading Draco’s mind. “Low wattage. But your father, he was a stickler for details.”

Draco says nothing. Neville subsides into silence for the rest of the journey, right up until the car passes through a set of gates. 

“There she is,” he says. “Home.”

Draco looks ahead, peering through the windscreen.

All he can see is darkness.

* * *

The sweeping steps of Agsworth Castle lead to a great set of oak doors, and the entire thing would have been slightly more impressive, Draco thinks, had Neville not fumbled with the keys and dropped them twice before the doors creaked open from within anyway.

“It wasn’t locked, Nev,” a woman says, stepping forward; a man stands behind her, peering curiously at Draco. “ _Honestly_.”

“Oh.”

The woman smiles politely at Draco. “Draco Malfoy,” she says. She does a very small and neat curtsy. Draco frowns at the old-fashioned gesture. “I’m the housekeeper, Hermione Weasley. I run the household and keep all its affairs in order.”

“ _Mr_ Malfoy,” he says, correcting her, but Hermione misunderstands.

“Oh, yes, our condolences. Terrible tragedy.”

Neville coughs. 

“There’s no need to curtsy,” Draco says. “We’re not in the nineteenth century.”

“Oh. Well, Mr Malfoy preferred it. A bit of decorum, he said.”

“I’m not my father, and I have my own way of doing things.”

There’s a long pause. Hermione swaps a look with Neville, then says, “Of course.”

The man behind Hermione steps forward. He’s lanky, with a freckled and cheerful face and a shock of ginger hair. “Ron Weasley,” he says, and he hesitates for a long moment before sticking his hand out.

Draco shakes it dutifully, feeling the roughness of dirt and calluses. 

“Sorry,” Ron says, dropping his hand. “I’ve just finished with your rooms, and forgot to give my hands a wash — ”

“Thank you,” Draco says, cutting him off. He talks too much, he thinks. Like Neville. All this chattiness. “My rooms?”

They all look at him blankly, then Hermione says, “Oh! Yes, of course. I’ll take you to them.”

“Right,” Neville says. “Any supper, Mr Malfoy? Can’t promise anything fancy, not until we get a new cook — ”

“No, thank you.” Draco turns and glances up the staircase. It leads dramatically upwards, lined with a velvet runner and bannisters of red marble. He’d been expecting dust and cobwebs, but the castle is neat and clean. The foyer sweeps around him in an impressive circle of polished tiles, and the faint tang of furniture wax hangs in the air. “It’s been a long trip.”

He can feel a silent conversation going on behind him, but when he turns around, they’re all standing silently with their eyes cast to the floor. Hermione lifts her gaze and offers Draco a polite smile. 

“Well. To your rooms, Mr Malfoy.”

They ascend the staircase. Hermione walks just behind Draco, which is infuriating. He doesn’t know the way to go, and he has to walk slowly and try to guess where to go based on Hermione’s pace and minute changes in direction.

“Can you walk in front, please?” Draco says curtly, and Hermione’s footsteps falter.

“Oh. Mr Malfoy always preferred — ”

“ _I’m_ Mr Malfoy, and I’m telling you to walk in front of me.”

There’s a short silence, then Hermione steps in front of him, her expression carefully smoothed into a blank look. Draco’s annoyed with himself. He’s tired, and irritable, and he _knows_ he’s being unkind. These are the people taking care of his ancestral home, and he needs to tread more carefully. But he just wants to sleep, and he’s tired of hearing _Mr Malfoy does this,_ and _Mr Malfoy likes that._ Lucius Malfoy is dead, and this is Draco’s home now. He won’t stay here forever, he thinks — just until he can figure out a _proper_ solution, and perhaps convince a relative to return again. But while he’s here, he intends to make clear his mark.

“We’ve given you the Emerald Suite,” Hermione says, opening an elaborately carved door. “Your main suite, of course, and the bathroom is to the right. There’s a sitting room just through here,” she adds, striding across the floor to open another door.

Draco steps inside. Ron seems to have done a thorough job cleaning it; he can’t fault him there. The floorboards are polished, and the rug — an elaborate green-and-silver affair involving serpents and dragons – appears to have been thrashed to within an inch of its life. The canopy bed is freshly made with the covers turned down, and a book sits on the bedside table. Draco frowns at it and crosses the room to pick it up, then abruptly sets it down. Of course. _The Bloodlines of the Malfoy Family._

“Why is this here?”

Hermione glances at the book. “Oh. Mr Malfoy...” She stops, then says very carefully, “Mr Lucius Malfoy liked a copy to be left in each bedroom, for visitors and guests to read.”

“I would like it removed.” He knows he’s being petulant, but this bloody book…forced to read it over and over in his childhood, until he knew each line by heart. His father’s stern expression. The smell of mildewy pages. The resentment brewing in his heart.

Hermione looks at him, then says rather flatly, “There’s a wastepaper bin in the sitting room.”

Draco goes into the sitting room. There’s a small writing desk, and two armchairs arranged around a low coffee table. He has to work out where the bin is; of _course_ it’s hidden away in a discreet wood panel on the writing desk.

“Well,” Hermione says. “If that’s all.”

“Yes.”

“Goodnight, Mr Malfoy.” She leaves, shutting the door firmly behind her. Not slamming, Draco notices. He tries to play the game, the one he often uses to distract himself from his thoughts and feel clever: is Hermione the sort to have a dog or a cat? Wine or liquor? Newspapers or magazines?

But his head hurts, and sleep is beckoning, and they’re all so hard to bloody read. The whole lot of them, he thinks resentfully, standing there swapping looks, all raised eyebrows and unsaid words. They don’t like him. Of course they don’t. He didn’t expect otherwise. Anyway, they’re staff. They’re not _supposed_ to like him. They’re supposed to respect him.

 _You sound like your father,_ a little voice tells him.

Draco goes to the window. There’s nothing but darkness, he thinks, but then he sees three lights wobbling along. The staff, going to the little caretaker’s lodge by the lake. He’s seen the lodge in photographs, and imagines it to have small rooms. A fireplace. A kitchenette with a pot of stew on the stove. A well-thumbed book, a crooked lamp, two jackets hanging by the door. 

Two dots of light separate and vanish into the lodge: Ron and Hermione going home. The other dot of light wanders onwards for a while longer, then stops. Moments later, a square of light pours out of the groundskeeper’s cottage. 

Draco turns away from the window and draws the curtains.

* * *

He wakes the next morning to a tea service arriving, courtesy of Ron.

“What are you doing here?” Draco blurts out, thoroughly disoriented.

“It’s seven, Mr Malfoy,” Ron says with confusion. “Here’s your tea. Nev- er, Mr Longbottom will be around at eight.”

“What? Why?”

“Walk around the grounds, that sort of thing. Nev said that’s what Mr Malfoy liked to do.”

“You’d do very well to learn _my_ habits, and not those of my father,” Draco snaps.

“Right. Yeah. Of course, I’ll…I’ll do that.” Ron turns and leaves without another word. 

Draco stares down at his bedcovers for a long moment, then sighs slowly, letting his shoulders slump. He ought to apologise, he thinks, but apologies are dredged from him like a drowned man from a river, and he can’t even bring himself to entertain _that_ notion. He can at least go down to the kitchens, he thinks, and be mildly amiable. Maybe ask a polite question about the gardens, or even compliment Ron’s thorough job on cleaning the Emerald Suite for Draco’s arrival. Yes; that _might_ be bearable. 

He stands up and dresses slowly, shivering. There had been a little fire burning cheerily in the bedroom hearth last night, but it’s merely cold ash and coal now. Ron perhaps would have restarted it, had Draco not been so terse with him.

_Be gracious to the help, Draco. Polite. Fair. Most certainly never familiar nor friendly, but you must make them feel loyal. A sense of pride in their work. Be cordial and you’ll find them keen to make your life most comfortable._

Draco shoves his father’s words away and yanks the curtains open. Daylight pours into the room, and he can see the view properly now. The lake sparkles in the sunlight, and the lawns are a verdant green, dotted with bright flower gardens. Beyond the manicured lawns, the fields slowly descend into a sprawling forest of golden cedars and white birch trees. A river curls around the edge of the fields, vanishing once more into the tree line. A peacock struts around a glass conservatory.

Maybe this _will_ be alright, Draco thinks. Maybe he _can_ live here. Just for a bit. Until another third cousin is found.

He turns and leaves, and it takes him far longer than he’d ever admit to find his way to the kitchens. Eventually, though, he hears the murmur of voices beyond a little white door tucked beneath the stairs, and he steps towards it, then pauses as he catches his name.

“... _I’m_ Mr Malfoy,” a voice is saying mockingly, and someone else laughs.

“Well, I feel sorry for him,” a man’s voice says. Neville, judging by the sound of it. “What? Don’t look at me like _that_. I do. It’s a big change. Didn’t he live in London for ages? Some fancy job in a fancy office.”

“ _I_ don’t feel sorry for him,” Hermione says. “Any sympathy vanished the moment he started barking orders at me! ‘I want this book removed’. I’m the _estate manager._ I balance the books, do all the finances, and manage the daily running of this _entire_ estate, and he thinks I’m there to put his rubbish in the bin and serve tea! Well. He’s got a _lot_ to learn.”

“Fancy asking _you_ to lead the way, Hermione! That’s not how it works.”

“He didn’t know the way,” Hermione says. “ _That’s_ the embarrassing bit. This is supposed to be _his_ home but he can’t even find his way to his own rooms!”

“Oh, don’t,” Neville says. “Come on. Just give him a bit of time to get used to it all.”

“You’re too soft, Nev,” Ron says, but there’s affection in his voice and Hermione laughs.

Draco turns and quietly walks away. 

Hermione is right. He doesn’t know this place. He doesn’t know where to go. He walks up the stairs and opens doors, looking blankly into guest suites and hall cupboards. He goes back downstairs again and pulls open a set of double doors that lead into an enormous hall. The flagstone floors emanate a chill, and four great tables are set upon them — large enough to comfortably accommodate a feast for hundreds. There’s a man sitting at one of the tables, and he looks small and alone, lost within the vastness of the hall.

“Oh,” Draco says stiffly. “Hello.” The new cook, perhaps. Is he supposed to interview the man? Or is that Hermione’s job? It seems like something _she’s_ supposed to do. Perhaps she already hired the man. Should he ask the man? Or Hermione? Or will he just bring more embarrassment upon himself?

The others are right, Draco thinks with despondency. He doesn’t know how to live here. How things are supposed to work. He’s not supposed to be here.

The man turns and looks at him. He seems to be around Draco’s age, with unruly dark hair and bright, curious eyes that soften with recognition. “Hello,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

“A while since what?”

“We met.”

Draco gives him a faintly suspicious look. “We’ve never met.”

The man looks at him for a long moment. “Oh,” he says. “I think I’ve mistaken you for someone else.”

Draco crosses the room and holds out his hand. “I’m Draco Malfoy.”

The man looks at his hand, glances up at him, then smiles crookedly. “A Malfoy,” he says. “I’ve met a few of you.”

They shake hands once. The man’s hand is warm despite the chill hanging in the air. Draco drops his hand to his side. 

“I like this room,” the man says. “It feels peaceful, doesn’t it? You can’t feel frightened or unhappy in here, not when there’s a view like that.” He points upwards.

Draco glances up. The entire ceiling is a domed skylight; rafters of dark oak curve toward the centre together, separated by panes of glass. It’s a breathtaking sight, and enough to make him fall silent for a long moment as he gazes upward into the sky.

” _Is treise dithis a dol thar an atha, na fad’o’ chèile_ ,” the man murmurs.

”I’m afraid my Gaelic is a little rusty,” Draco says, still looking skyward for just a moment longer. “Is that from an inscription?”

“Mr Malfoy?”

Draco glances away. Neville is standing in the doorway, looking at him. 

“Nice room, eh?” Neville says. “This one’s called the Great Hall. Used to hold big feasts and things back in the day. Not much use for it now, though.”

“I suppose not.” Draco looks down at the empty chairs lining the tables, and frowns. The dust lays thick on the tables. A spiderweb hangs in the corner. “There was a man here,” he says.

Neville doesn’t look surprised or bewildered. “Yes,” he says. “You’ll get used to that.”

“Used to what?”

Neville pauses. “The castle,” he says at last. “And it’s...visitors. Now, a tour of the grounds, perhaps? And Ron can show you around the castle itself. I thought it’d be useful for you to know your way around.”

“Yes. So next time, Hermione doesn’t lead the way.”

There’s a long pause. Neville looks at him, then glances away with a guilty expression. “Right,” he says. “Well. Let’s start with the lake. Everybody likes the lake. There’s a little mooring there, if you’re much inclined for watercraft and that sort of thing. It’s fair weather today — a nice time to see the lake.”

“And the river.”

Neville pauses, his hand resting on one of the ornate handles of the oak doors. “Ah,” he says slowly. “Yes.”

“Where does it go?”

“South.”

“Obviously. I’m just curious about where it starts and ends.”

“Starts east, near Wick. Ends up flowing into Loch Badanloch. You’ll want to fetch your hat and coat, Mr Malfoy. The breeze comes right off that lake and it gets cold. After the lake, I thought you might like to see the hedge maze.”

Draco touches a hand to the empty chair beside him. After a pause, he withdraws his hand and turns away. “The hedge maze. Right.”

Neville ushers him from the room, and locks the doors behind them.

* * *

Neville ambles around the estate with familiarity. The grounds at the front of the castle are mostly taken up by the very large lake, which Neville has made quite picturesque with delicate willow trees and the occasional stone bench. 

“Built that pier myself,” he says proudly, nodding at a sturdy wooden pier leading into the lake. Draco looks at the sun-faded wood. 

“Been here long?”

“Oh, _years._ Used to come up here as a boy to help with the fruit-picking in the orchards. Then Mr Mal- Lucius Malfoy hired me to help the gardener sometimes. Sort of made my way up through the ranks. Now I’m the head landscaper.”

“Who works for you?”

Some of Neville’s pride fades then. “Well. Not anyone, not at the moment. After your father died, the household got…smaller, I suppose. He used to hold big parties and go out hunting all the time, and he’d always be entertaining...”

 _Entertaining._ Draco can hear that word in his father’s mouth, smothered in disdain. _Entertaining_ , Lucius used to sneer. He’d invite over all those middle-aged, bland men, and they’d drink their whiskey and smoke their cigars and laugh too loudly at their own stupid jokes. _Father has boring friends,_ Draco had told his mother once, and she’d laughed and said, _They’re not his friends, darling. Think of them as…little bits of power. Your father collects power._

“But after he died,” Neville continues, “it all stopped. I mean, nothing against your relatives, Mr Malfoy. They were all very...” He struggles.

“Adequate.”

“Er. Yes. But not exactly the sort for…entertaining. They didn’t really do much except go for walks to the village sometimes.”

“And complain about ghosts,” Draco adds, and he points to the lake. “Perfect spot for a good ghost, I imagine. Lakes always are, aren’t they? Come midnight, and the mist will drift over it, and some tragic maiden will drag herself from it.”

Neville laughs nervously. “No. There’s no tragic maiden. Anyway, so most of the staff have left. Just me and Ron and Hermione.”

“And are they new to the job?”

“Ron is, Mr Malfoy.” Neville leaves the lakeside, making his way toward the lawns lining the east wing of the castle. There’s a set of old wooden stables and a training arena for the horses. “But Hermione’s been here years and years. Mostly doing laundry.”

“And she worked her way up too, then?” He’s not surprised. Hermione strikes him as the sort of person with a frightening work ethic. 

“Oh, no. Stayed in the laundry for _years_. Your father eventually allowed her to become a general house servant. She’s the wrong sort, see. Not one of the old families. Not from around here. Her parents are dentists,” Neville adds.

Draco suddenly remembers Binns badgering him with the estate after his father’s death. _Arrangements must be made, the staff and so on, they’ve been in communication with me and are most anxious to discuss several matters with you, promotions and transfers of duty and so forth_ — and Draco had waved him away with annoyance. _Do whatever you see fit,_ he’d said. _I’m busy._

“We’re grateful, Mr Malfoy, we really are. Hermione cried when you authorised her promotion,” Neville adds. 

Draco says nothing. He thinks of Hermione’s anger after he told her to put the book away, and her rant to the others — _barking orders at me! I’m the estate manager_ — and hurries onward, through the stables. The building still smells of hay and leather, and have been kept in excellent condition. He’s quite surprised that — 

He jumps as a loud and ungainly honk comes from inside one of the stalls, and stumbles into a metal pail, sending it skittering over the floor. He thinks he hears a snuffed laugh, but when he turns, Neville is poker-faced.

“That’s just Clement,” he says. “One of the peacocks. He’s a funny little fellow. Spoiled rotten,” he adds with affection. “Ron keeps the stalls stocked with fresh hay for him. Nice and cosy.”

Draco peers over the stall door. Clement peers back at him with beady eyes, then turns slightly as if to show off his rather majestic tail. 

“Ron takes care of the peacocks too?”

“Oh yes. We used to have a gamekeeper for all the animals, but…well, like I said. A lot of them left after your father died. We’ve been trying to do the best we can. Ron requested permission to hire a general hand, but it was declined.”

Draco wishes he could blame that on Binns — penny-pincher that he is — but he won’t. Ultimately, Draco’s the owner of the estate, and he can’t blame others for his mistakes. He _won’t_ blame others, he thinks with a sudden flash of defiance. Things will be different. He’s not his father.

He’s _not_.

“I’ll have a word with Ron,” he says abruptly. 

“Thank you, Mr Malfoy,” Neville says, looking a bit emotional suddenly. “That’s very kind of you. It’s been difficult, very difficult lately. Castle this size, and only three people...”

Draco clears his throat. “Yes, of course,” he says briskly, turning away. “Now. The rest of the grounds?”

Neville steps forward, leading Draco back across the manicured lawns and rose gardens, the mournful honk of Clement echoing behind them.

* * *

They return to the castle at lunchtime, where Ron’s arrived back from the local inn with a generous ploughman’s lunch. He hands it rather unceremoniously to Draco.

“There you go, Mr Malfoy,” he says, and Hermione elbows him. “What? _What?”_

“Plates, Ronald. Cups. Napkins. The _dining_ room.”

“What? Oh.”

Ron fetches a service trolley and leads the way to the dining room. It’s a large room, and dark, Draco thinks with annoyance. Walnut paneling, a very long and dark table, high-backed chairs. Paintings line the walls, all showing similar gloomy scenes of sheep or highland cattle standing in grey fields. Ron has to switch on the light even though it’s only midday. 

“Hermione’s sorting out a new cook,” Ron reassures him as he hands over the plate, and places a jug of water and a glass at Draco’s elbow. “We’ll just have to manage until then. Anything else, Mr Malfoy? Tea or coffee? Your dad always liked a glass of brandy with lunch, Hermione said.”

“No, thank you,” Draco says coldly, suddenly remembering Ron’s earlier jeer in the kitchen. _I’m Mr Malfoy now!_

Ron vanishes into the hallway with the service; Draco listens to it clatter over the floorboards and fade from earshot. 

He sits alone at the polished table of dark wood. Walnut, he thinks. Teak. His father would know, of course, and he’d be irritated by Draco’s lack of knowledge. _A man ought to take pride in his home, Draco. What’s the point in having a vase if you can’t tell guests it’s pure silver, acquired by a Malfoy in the sixteenth century?_

Draco looks down the long, empty table. The dining room is silent except for the ticking of a small gold clock on the mantle. Draco should probably know the history of that object too. He glares at the clock while he eats his lunch.

Just as he finishes eating and pushes the empty plate away, the door creaks open. Draco glances over at it and frowns as an elderly man steps into the room. He’s dressed neatly in a little tweed suit, his long white beard combed neatly, and carries a little toolbox in one hand.

“Yes?” Draco asks curtly. “Who are you?”

“I’m Mr Dumbledore,” the old man says. “Here to wind the clocks. Just need your permission, of course.”

Draco looks at the little gold clock again. “Very well,” he says, standing up. “I’d just finished my lunch, anyway.”

The man steps into the room just as there’s the sound of clattering wheels and footsteps. 

“Finished with your lunch, Mr Malfoy?” Ron asks, pushing the tea service rather carelessly along. “Only I’ve got a bit of time to do the tour of the castle.”

Draco glances around the room. “There was a man here,” he says, perplexed. “To wind the clocks.”

Ron’s expression changes subtly. “You saw the Clock-Winder?”

“Yes. Nobody told me he’d be coming by today,” Draco adds, perhaps slightly petty about it.

“Ah.”

“He was right here.”

“Well,” Ron says. “Probably went through one of the servant’s doors.”

“The what?”

Ron goes over to a section of the walnut paneling and presses lightly on it; it springs open, revealing a narrow entrance. “There’s loads of these, all over the castle. Hidden away. So the staff could come and go unseen. We don’t really use them these days. Your dad used to like hiding in them, though, and frightening his friends. Nearly killed poor old Mr Fudge last time. He’s got a weak heart,” Ron adds. “Well. Weaker now, I suppose.”

“Oh.”

“Well. Good way to start the tour, I s’pose. Come on, we’ll go back to the foyer and start properly.”

Draco glances over his shoulder at the empty dining room, then follows Ron down the hallway. As they stand in the circular foyer, Ron says, “If I give you a bit of advice, Mr Malfoy, will you promise not to ask any questions about it?”

Draco looks at him with raised eyebrows, expecting a joke, but Ron’s expression is solemn. “All right,” Draco says with amusement. “What’s your advice, then?”

“Might sound a bit odd, Mr Malfoy, but if the Clock-Winder ever asks for your permission to wind the clocks, you must never give it.”

“Oh? Why, will I turn into a frog or something?”

Ron doesn’t reply. After a moment, Draco’s smirk fades.

“Well. This is the foyer, clearly,” Draco says abruptly, changing the subject. “I assume that little room over there is the cloak-room.”

“You’d guess right, Mr Malfoy. There’s a parlour room next to it, then the dining room, of course, and the kitchens right at the back. They’re larger than you might expect, the kitchens. Got the pantry, the buttery, the wine cellar...” 

And the moment passes, and Ron chatters away, settling into his role of guide, and the Clock-Winder is not mentioned again.

Because it means nothing, Draco tells himself, and he puts the entire incident from his mind in the same way he neatly tidied away his father’s death.


	3. The Reader

Draco slowly gets used to Agsworth Castle: the mournful call of the peacocks during the day, the grey rains coming in over the fields, the various rooms and suites. There’s a certain look to the interior, which he assumes all castles have. The dark wood paneling, the gloomy pictures, the dull tapestries. It can’t be helped, he supposes. 

But there’s no ghosts, he thinks, and he can’t help but roll his eyes at his hapless relatives. Really! Especially Aunt Andromeda, who is — quite secretly — one of his favourite relatives. She always struck Draco as being a no-nonsense person. Stern but kind. And yet even _she_ had let her imagination run away with her! The last letter she’d written him had been quite skittish. Something about books with no words, and a woman with a black maw for a mouth and eyes glittering with malice. Yet Draco’s been here for nearly a month now and there’s nothing but the occasional mouse scurrying across the floor, and the creaks and groans of an old house settling at night.

Still, he mustn’t blame poor Aunt Andromeda. Why, the very first night he’d arrived, he’d gotten terribly worked up over a _fog_. A foolish moment where he’d let the atmosphere get to him. Perhaps it was the isolation, he thinks, that got to Andromeda. After all, it does feel a bit… well… _lonely_ , here in this great castle surrounded by empty fields and meadows and forests. Even the staff have little need to talk to him. Hermione runs the household perfectly and needs no assistance; Ron does all the repairs and cleaning. Neville potters about the grounds, doing mysterious things to hydrangeas and wrangling wayward weeds. They clearly know their jobs well.

Unlike Draco.

He’s wealthy enough not to need work, but he sorely misses the busyness of his London job. What’s he supposed to _do_ with his time? He makes the mistake, in the first week, of seeking out Hermione and asking her what Lucius did to occupy his time.

“Oh, lots of things,” she says, sitting in the musty little parlour near the dining room, evidently doing the estate’s accounts. “All his little dinner parties. Hunting, sometimes. Oh, he liked polo, until his horse threw him badly last autumn. He was _furious_ about that and had the horse euthanised. Rather beautiful horse, that one.” Hermione pauses, lifting her pen. “Now, we’ve hired another general hand to help Ron, as requested. Harry will start tomorrow. Oh! The cook. Mrs Weasley will be starting today.”

“Mrs Weasley,” Draco repeats, and then glances at her. “Relative of yours?”

“My mother-in-law.”

“I see.”

Hermione presses her mouth into a thin line. “This isn’t nepotism. I believe in fairness, Mr Malfoy. I’m recommending Mrs Weasley because she has plenty of experience cooking for large households and I believe she’s the best candidate. She used to help us in the kitchens sometimes when your father held large parties. There is no bias, Mr Malfoy, I assure you.”

Draco looks at her. Yes; Hermione _does_ play fair. A stickler for rules. Probably a prefect at school. Prefers cats to dogs. Reads large-page newspapers when she’s got company, and tabloids when she’s alone. “Very well,” he says. “You’ll be accountable for her performance, then.”

“Of course.” Hermione opens a folder and extracts a different paper. “If you could sign here, Mr Malfoy.”

“Yes, thank you.” Draco accepts the paper and stands up. He catches another whiff of musty air, and tugs the window sash open.

Hermione pauses halfway through organising her papers. “Bit of fresh air?”

“Yes. Get rid of that smell.”

“Please remember to close it before nightfall.”

“You sound like Neville,” Draco says, amused. “Will a ghost pop through the window to scare me?”

“It’s the fog. Brings damp into the room and causes mildew,” Hermione says smoothly.

“I haven’t seen the fog this far up, near the castle. It seems to sit down in the valley.”

“It will come up,” Hermione says, “if you leave the window open.”

“Can sense weakness in the defence, can it?” Draco asks lightly.

Hermione doesn’t smile. “Good afternoon, Mr Malfoy.”

He studies her for a moment, then nods once, and leaves. 

* * *

He spends the next day wandering the castle idly. There are four guest suites, each named after a gem: Ruby, Sapphire, Amber, and, of course, Emerald. Draco doesn’t know how he feels about being put in a guest suite and not the master’s rooms. The Emerald Suite is the nicest and largest, and certainly not a snub. And he’s not sure how he would have reacted if he were given Lucius’ rooms. He has the feeling poor Hermione and Ron had a week-long discussion about the delicate nature of the arrangements.

The Emerald Suite is on the second floor, separated by a long hallway from the Sapphire Suite. Draco finds the dark blue colours of the Sapphire Suite soothing. It features a long wall of glass with a telescope directly in front of it. The armchairs have silver trim and remind him of stars. It’s a nighttime room, he decides.

The Amber Suite, by comparison, is on the third floor and is cheerful and light and airy, featuring paintings of sunflowers and fields. The bedroom features a bed as soft as butter and daffodil-yellow linen. In the sitting room, there’s a tapestry of a green meadow along the wall, and the view shows the pretty glass conservatory sparkling in the weak sunlight. It’s the day room, he thinks, meant for people who want light conversation and a glass of dessert wine.

When he steps into the Ruby Suite, though, he knows it’s his favourite. He smiles as though greeting an old friend.

Harry, he thinks suddenly. That man he met in the Great Hall, he’s suddenly _sure_ of it. The one Hermione hired.

But Harry’s not here, and it makes no sense to think of a perfect stranger, so Draco tidies that thought away, and rests his hand on a comfortable chaise longue perfectly designed for reading a good book. This room is meant for autumn afternoons, he thinks. There’s a large hearth and he can picture the fire crackling merrily. The fields are misted grey with rain, and the clouds smother the sky. It’s almost picturesque, really, the soft twilight of the land, especially when it’s viewed from the warm and cosy Ruby Suite. The rooms overlook the northern part of the estate, the bits nobody much cares about: the old stables, the fields, a small and distant hill. Knowing Lucius, he probably gave this suite to his least favourite guest. He always thought he was being clever like that.

Draco feels oddly fond of the suite. Despite the name, the colours are more rich burgundy, accented with faded gold. Unlike the serpentine rug of the Emerald Suite, there’s a huge circular rug of griffins battling flames and swords. The armchairs aren’t straight-backed and winged; they’re thick, squashy invitations to sprawl. The furniture is a bit more scratched and well-worn. Another little snub that Lucius indulged in, Draco thinks. Put the furniture in the room with the blandest view, and smugly give it to poor Aunt Andromeda every summer. But somehow, it makes the room look nicer. More inviting. 

There’s a tap on the door and Mrs Weasley bustles in. She matches the Ruby Suite too, Draco thinks. She’s a pleasantly plump woman with a little scruffiness to her that is almost reassuring, somehow: the flour smudged on her sleeves, the apron string coming loose, the frizzy hairs escaping her bun of unmistakably Weasley hair.

“Good afternoon, Draco!” she says cheerily, pushing the tea service. “Thought it was good weather for a cup of tea and a couple of buttered crumpets.”

“Oh,” he says, and finds that Mrs Weasley has effortlessly taken his usual temperament and casually dissolved it like a sugar cube in a cup of hot tea. He can’t quite bring himself to demand _Mr Malfoy_ instead. “That’s...a fine idea, yes, thank you.”

“I did think about scones with a nice chutney, but I wouldn’t want you to ruin your appetite. I’ve done a stew for dinner. Nothing fancy,” Mrs Weasley adds firmly. “You might live in a castle, but you also live in the Scottish highlands in autumn. You don’t need fiddly little canapés, you need a nice hearty stew and a couple of bread rolls for dipping. _Proper_ ones, hot from the oven.” She wags a finger at him. “Especially _you._ Too thin. It’s London. Poor people, they stagger out of that city thin as rakes. It’s not good for the constitution.”

Mrs Weasley clearly hasn’t acquainted herself with the very comfortable and large businessmen that Draco often dealt with, but he doesn’t correct her. The idea of correcting Mrs Weasley is somehow mildly frightening.

“I’m sorry if it took a while to find me,” he says instead, feeling guilty at the idea of poor Mrs Weasley wandering about the castle, looking for him. 

She waves dismissively. “Oh, this is the first place I looked. Your favourite place, when you were a child.”

Draco frowns at her. “I never visited. I’m afraid you must be mistaken.”

“Oh, don’t tell lies.” Mrs Weasley wags a finger at him. “Shame on you, Draco! You wouldn’t remember me, I suppose — I only visited to help with the larger meals. Parties and things. The cook back then was a sour old thing called Mr Kreacher, and — oh, I’d better check on that stew! It needs another stirring.” She bustles away again, giving him another cheery wave on her way out.

Draco pauses, looking out across the view again, but somehow it’s lost its charm, and the sky seems too low and heavy, and he abruptly stands, crosses the room, and opens the door again, leaving it ajar. 

Just so he doesn’t feel trapped.

* * *

That night, when he lays in bed, he thinks he can hear someone singing above him somewhere. In the Ruby Suite, he thinks. He doesn’t know the tune, or perhaps he _does_ , for the words come creeping into his mind.

_Little did my mother think,_

_When first she cradled me..._

Someone is humming nearby, he thinks. He sits up, looking across the dark shadows of his room. The curtains seem to shift slightly. Did he leave the window open? He goes to it, pulling back the curtains. His own face stares back at him, reflected in the dark glass. He can see nothing else, only his own pale face. He stares at it. The more he looks, the more foreign it seems to be. Like it isn’t really his. His mouth is the wrong shape, somehow, and his eyes seem far too dark. As though a shadow has climbed into his skin and stretched his face over itself, like a mask. _He’s_ the one humming, he thinks suddenly.

_That I would turn a roving boy_

_And die upon the gallers tree..._

“You ought to step back from that window.”

Draco jumps, dropping the curtain; it falls back into place, twitches once, and then is still. He whips around, his heart beating wildly. “Get out! What are you doing in my room?”

It’s Harry, he realises. The handyman Hermione hired. The man from the Great Hall. He looks mildly offended. “I thought I heard you call out.”

“It’s the middle of the night!”

“Oh.” Harry scuffs his feet, his face turning pink. “Sorry. I suppose I lost track of time. I was working on something… I suppose I must’ve fallen asleep. Did I skip dinner?” He sounds genuinely bewildered, and Draco feels a bit less outraged.

“ _I_ don’t know. It’s not _my_ job to keep track of what everyone does in this house. You’d better go before Hermione catches you. If she finds out you’re asleep on the job, she’ll strangle you with her bare hands. Now, if you _don’t_ mind.” Draco collects the remnants of his dignity and returns to his bed, stiffly folding the covers around himself. “You ought to leave.”

“Of course. Sorry,” Harry adds, a hint of embarrassment returning to his voice. 

Draco listens to the door close, then sits up again, listening closely. But the humming has vanished, and he can’t even remember the song anyway. Deep down, he’s grateful for Harry’s awkward and somewhat unprofessional arrival, and their conversation has soothed away any unease. 

He falls asleep easily.

* * *

He does complain to Hermione of the incident the next day, as he’s having his breakfast in the cold and dark dining room.

“That handyman came into my personal rooms last night. Said he’d fallen asleep while working and lost track of time.”

Hermione frowns. “Really? Well. If you’re _sure._ I’ll have a word with him.” She drops a ledger next to Draco’s elbow. “Sign here, please, Mr Malfoy, to finalise the monthly accounts.”

Mrs Weasley arrives then, whistling a cheery tune, and she tells Hermione off. “Fancy bothering him with your little ledgers! Not at breakfast, Hermione! Let people enjoy their meals.”

Hermione huffs but she leaves, and Mrs Weasley sets another cup of tea down by Draco’s elbow.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly — ”

“Go on,” she says firmly. “Don’t be silly. Freshly made, piping hot. It’ll make you feel better.”

“Better about what?”

“Gloomy castle like this, everyone always needs to feel better,” Mrs Weasley says stoutly.

Draco watches her bustle away again and decides that favouritism or not, he’s not going to disagree with Hermione’s hiring choices. 

* * *

He spends the morning writing replies to letters; he reassures Aunt Andromeda that all is well, and he’s not yet encountered any supernatural occurrences. Then a letter to Pansy, a London friend wondering how he’s finding life in the Scottish highlands.

 _Terribly boring,_ he writes. _If only I had an interest in chasing and killing things, as my father did._

In the afternoon, he wanders the castle for a good spot to while away the time, and finds himself in the butter-yellow Amber Suite. The day rooms, he remembers thinking. The cheerful sunflowers, the meadow mural. This guest room was where most of his relatives had stayed, and they all seemed deeply unsettled by it. Draco finds that difficult to imagine. He finds _all_ of it difficult to imagine. Even his room in the Emerald Suite, draped in gloomy greens and ghostly silver — _perfect_ for the rattle of a chain or a creaky door at midnight — has proven itself normal. If the Emerald Suite can’t even produce a cold draught, then there’s no hope for the cheery, airy Amber Suite.

Draco goes to the window seats, piled high with comfortable pillows and a white throw-rug. A housefly buzzes against the glass. The seat is warm from the weak sunshine pouring through the windows. There’s a book on the cushions, open and face-down, and Draco raises an eyebrow. Someone’s been lazing about in here, reading books on the job, and he’d normally guess Hermione, but her work ethic is too intimidating. She would never laze about on the window seats, idly reading while she was supposed to be working. Ron doesn’t seem book-inclined, which leaves the hapless Neville. Well. Draco considers snitching, just for the novelty of seeing Hermione unleash her fury upon Neville for his unprofessionalism. 

But then he remembers Neville coming to his defence in the kitchens and saying, _Oh, don’t_ , and Draco decides to let the book go unmentioned. Just once. An eye for an eye.

He leans back against the soft cushions. The housefly buzzes about. The sunlight dances over the meadow mural. Draco feels quite sleepy suddenly. Must be the sun, he thinks distantly. Heavy and warm on him. He finds himself humming, though he doesn’t recognise the tune. He picks up the book. It perfectly matches the room. There’s a little picture on the front cover, of green trees, the sunlight dappling through the leaves and onto the grass below, where a little picnic is set out. There’s no title. He turns to the first page, and begins reading. The housefly buzzes. The sunlight shines. The house creaks and settles. 

Draco finds himself looking at the front cover again. The picnic blanket looks comfortable and inviting. The trees seem to sway with a refreshing breeze. There’s a picnic basket, the lid closed, but he can imagine the delicious food within. In the distance, between the trees, there’s a young woman in a yellow dress.

He goes back to the book and tries to find his page, but he can’t quite remember what he was reading. He can’t really remember _anything_ about the story. The housefly keeps buzzing about. He glances up, out the window, at the lovely green fields and the blue sky. A perfect afternoon. After a moment, Draco looks at the cover again. It really _is_ an enchanting illustration. The food spilling from the basket looks so enticing: crisp, red apples, and sandwiches of thick homemade bread and marmalade, and scones with clotted cream and raspberry jam. The young woman in the yellow dress sits on the comfortable blanket, looking relaxed.

Yes. A perfect afternoon. A picnic, Draco thinks. He should have a picnic out there in the forest. Seems a shame to waste the weather. He ought to go to that exact spot on the cover. He _needs_ to, otherwise it won’t be perfect. And somehow he already knows the exact spot! Deep into the forest, over the river, and up the little hill. To the shade of the dule tree. Yes. That’s right. And there will be apples, and brambles, and cold juice freshly pressed from the orchard fruits, and he’ll sit on that little chequered blanket and eat until he falls asleep in the sunlight, and then...

“Draco! _Draco!”_

Draco glances up. He’s soaked, he realises. Water is dripping down his face. Harry is holding his arm rather tightly.

“You all right? I called out half a dozen times!”

Draco blinks at him. “What? Oh, yes. I was going to have a picnic.”

“A _picnic?”_

Draco looks around, finally seeing his surroundings. He’s by the flowerbeds, heading towards the fields. It’s a dreary, grey afternoon. The rain is pouring down. His shoes are already soaked with mud. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of trousers and a thin shirt, and he suddenly shivers.

“Come on,” Harry says. “We’d better get indoors. You’ll catch your death out here.”

Draco trails after him, glancing over his shoulder at the sodden fields and dark skies. He doesn’t understand. It was a perfect summer afternoon… how could the weather change so quickly?

“In here,” Harry says, hurrying into the conservatory. 

Draco looks around. The conservatory is beautiful and huge, made entirely of glass and filled with greenery. A bird-of-paradise stands next to him, colourful and bright. Ferns hang from the walls. An orange tree grows in the centre of the circular floor, clearly Neville’s pride and joy.

“Sit down,” Harry says, moving aside a forlorn-looking petunia. “Neville will be back in a tick, he’s just fetching some more potting mix.”

“It’s nice in here,” Draco says without thinking. The air is warm and smells like damp earth. The glass allows the light to pour in, and even under such dreary skies it still maintains a feeling of space. Draco can breathe easier in here. He hadn’t even been aware of how heavy and warm and almost _suffocating_ the Amber Suite had been. Funny, that. Hadn’t he thought it airy and bright and nice? “That weather changes quickly, doesn’t it? One minute it feels like a midsummer day in southern England, and then...” He trails off.

“It’s been raining all afternoon.”

“Ah. I must have fallen asleep, then, and had a peculiar dream. I was reading a book, you see.”

“You’ve met The Reader, then,” Harry says without the slightest bit of surprise. “She likes doing that. Leaving her books lying around like little invitations. Don’t accept them.”

“I did pick it up and read it. But I didn’t get to the ending, I don’t think.”

“You’ll know if you get to the ending,” Harry says with certainty. 

“I can’t remember any of the story.”

“Yes, she likes it that way. Otherwise you’ll get too upset, you see, and next time you see one of her pretty little books, you might not pick it up.”

Draco curls a hand around the edge of the stone bench. It’s cold and solid and smooth, and utterly reassuring. “You speak as if she exists. It was just a dream.” He pauses. “She’s just a bad dream, isn’t she?”

“She’s pure malice, that’s what she is.”

Draco studies him for a moment. “You know,” he says, “you _do_ look familiar. Did we go to school together?”

Harry looks away. “No.”

“Oh.” After a moment, Draco tries again. “I think we did.”

“We didn’t go to school together, Draco.”

The conservatory door opens, bringing in a gust of icy wind and rain. Neville staggers inside, a bag of potting mix over one shoulder. “Oh! Hello, Mr Malfoy!” he says, struggling to shut the door behind himself. “ _Terrible_ day for gardening.” He sets the potting mix down. “You’re wanted up at the house, by the way. Someone called and left a message.”

“Oh. Well… I suppose I ought to leave, then.” Draco stands up slowly. “See you later,” he tells Harry.

“Bye!” Neville says cheerfully from somewhere around the foot of an enormous fern. 

Draco goes to the door and pauses a moment, looking over his shoulder at Harry.

Then he turns away again, bracing himself for the cold outside.

* * *

It was Pansy who called, and Draco doesn’t realise until he hears her voice how lonely he feels.

“How are you finding everything?” Pansy asks him, her voice tinny on the old landline.

“Perfectly fine. My relatives have all fled so quickly, I was quite expecting ghostly moans and scratching in the walls. But there’s nothing.”

“You must feel cheated,” Pansy says playfully. “The least the castle could do is find a sad bride to trail about near the lake, or a suit of armour that moves.”

“Just a little ‘boo’ would be nice.”

“I’ll drape a bedsheet over myself and visit sometime.”

Draco laughs, feeling better. He thinks of mentioning the funny incident in the Amber Suite, then dismisses it. Clearly his imagination ran away with him, and Harry was probably just trying to spook him with ghost stories. “There’s nothing to do here. I’m bored.”

“You’re the lord of a castle now. You’ve got to do all that rubbish like hunting ducks and riding horses and shouting at people.”

“All that stuff my father liked to do.”

Pansy pauses. “Do you miss him?”

“How’s that fiancé of yours?”

“Draco, you haven’t talked about his death, not _once_ , and I do think — ”

“Tell me about the wedding plans. Don’t tell me you’ve still got your heart set on a cake shaped like a grand piano.”

There’s a long pause. “Draco,” Pansy says, just once, and then she sighs and says instead, “The plans are going well. Did I tell you about my idea for the doves?”

“No,” Draco says. “Go on.”

They talk and talk, and Draco hardly remembers a word Pansy says.

Only that it’s better than the silence that seems to hang over the castle like a fog.

* * *

  
  


The next day is grey and overcast, but the rain has gone. It’s good weather for the Amber Suite, Draco thinks, so he goes there. There’s a housefly buzzing against the window pane. The cushions are comfortable and warm. He looks out the window, admiring the view over the fields. They’re sunlit and a riot of colour: golden grass, bright wildflowers, the occasional green willow. He ought to have a picnic, he thinks, gazing at the blue cloudless sky. Yes. A picnic. 

He settles down on the window seat. The soft white throw-rug seems to drape itself over him. A sense of sleepiness steals over him. What a pleasant place. He ought to stay here forever. He could have a little picnic in the woods, deep in the woods, where the birds are silent and the insects don’t chirp. The woods...

He looks down at his lap. There’s a book resting on the throw-rug, open and face-down, and he reaches out toward it because it’s such a lovely little invitation — 

_You mustn’t accept._

Draco pauses.

He withdraws his hand and stands up abruptly, having to fight off the drowsiness as though it’s a heavy blanket. The throw-rug tangles around his legs and trips him up; the cushions are so soft that it’s difficult to rise from them. But he manages. 

The housefly is dead now, lying on the sill, its legs kicking weakly at the air. 

He turns away from it and leaves the Amber Suite, fleeing its warm embrace


	4. The Mother

Draco begins spending time in the downstairs parlour instead, reading books from the safety of the orderly bookshelf. The parlour seems the least… _troublesome_ room so far. No wonder he often sees Hermione doing the books in there. 

One afternoon, Draco finds Ron there, tinkering about with a spray bottle and cleaning rag. He stands and politely makes to leave when Draco enters, but Draco idly waves a hand at him.

“You can stay,” he says. A month ago, when he first arrived, he would have been annoyed by Ron pottering about in the background — now, he actually finds it reassuring.

“Ah, I’d better fix these scratches,” Ron says, nodding at a fallen portrait leaning against the wall. It’s facing the wall; all Draco can see is the wooden back of it. “Or Mother gets tetchy.”

“Your mother likes the portraits?”

Ron looks at him blankly. “What? Oh, not _my_ mother. Not Mum.” He sets a pot of beeswax down.

Draco frowns at him, but before he can ask another question, Mrs Weasley has bustled into the room. It’s half-ten exactly. She arranges morning tea on the side-table: a cup of black coffee, bitter and scalding hot, and a thick tattie scone still warm from the oven and soft as a cloud. 

“Freshly churned, Mr Malfoy,” Mrs Weasley says, adding a pot of herbed butter to the arrangement.

“Smells good,” Ron says wistfully, and Mrs Weasley’s face crinkles into a smile.

But she says sternly as she leaves, “You’ll have yours in the kitchen at eleven, Ronald. And no sooner.”

He only gives a wry grin and returns to his work. Draco eyes the coffee, which looks freshly pressed and exactly how he likes it.

“Hermione said Mrs Weasley’s a renowned cook in the area,” Draco observes idly. “Why on earth didn’t my father hire her sooner?”

Ron pauses midway through rubbing beeswax over a scratch on the frame. “Er,” he says. “Your dad doesn’t really — didn’t really like our family. See, my brother Fred used to work up here. Him and George. Twins. Always together. Fred’s job was the parties. Your dad, he loved a good party. Drinking and smoking those cigars.” Ron doesn’t look up from his work, rubbing the frame industriously. “Fred was a born entertainer. He liked that job. Always knew how to throw a good party.”

_Was._

Draco’s beginning to have a sinking feeling about this story.

“George, though, he didn’t like the castle. Said it was creepy. He worked out in the stables, keeping your father’s horse in good nick.”

“Red,” Draco says suddenly, and Ron glances at him.

“Yeah. Red. Bad-tempered mare. George didn’t mind her, though.” He looks at the portrait frame, nods to himself, and then steps onto a little stool and hangs it again, revealing a painting of a woman. “Anyway. One night, when a party was in full swing, the fog started coming in. When it comes in, you...” He stops, then scoops a chunk of beeswax from the tub and rubs it vigorously along a deep scratch in the next frame. “Fred was supposed to stay the night. Not leave the castle. On those nights. Because of the fog, you see. It made it… dangerous to go home. Couldn’t see the roads properly. Best to stay in the castle with the windows closed.” Ron speaks rapidly, still without a glance at Draco. “But your dad had a lot of guests, and told Fred to go stay in the caretaker’s lodge instead. They had an argument about it and your dad ordered Fred off the property completely. Told him he was fired. Told him to go home.”

Draco can picture it too easily. His father, enjoying the company of his sycophants, warm with good whiskey, getting fed up with the servant ruining the party with an argument. Lucius’s infamous temper would have bubbled to the surface. 

“Well, Fred left.” Ron puts the lid on his beeswax and stands up. “They found his body the next morning. By the river.”

The ending seems so abrupt that it takes Draco’s mind a moment to catch up. “What? Hang on, he — oh. I’m sorry,” he offers awkwardly. 

Ron turns away and busies himself with the vase of white lilies by the side table. “Ruled a suicide. Your father never forgave my family for the scandal it caused.”

“He was worried about a _scandal?”_

“Swore never to hire another Weasley and said he’d make sure we never stepped foot on his property again. Joke’s on him, I guess. After your father died, your solicitor let Hermione choose all the staff. You signed all the contracts, of course, but something tells me you didn’t even bother looking at our names.”

Draco is silent. He looks down at the book on his lap, the page still unturned, and says. “I was busy. In London.”

“Yeah.” Ron lops off the head of a dying lily. 

An awkward silence descends. After a moment, Draco says, “How’s your assistant?”

Ron briskly wipes fallen pollen from the table. “I appreciate the extra pair of hands. Harry’s a solid worker, and an old friend besides. An old castle like this, it’s hard trying to do everything. Clean and fix and repair and maintain.”

“Ah,” Draco says. “An old friend. Hermione _does_ like to hire family and friends, then.”

Ron gives him a sharp look. “Harry’s a solid worker, like I said. Anyway, I’m surprised you hired him.”

Draco raises his eyebrows. “Why?”

“Harry’s not allowed on the grounds either. Your father never liked him. Dunno why. He’s not been allowed near the castle, not since he was a little kid.”

Draco looks up. His father’s portrait hangs on the wall opposite, his eyes staring at Draco as if to burn a hole through him. In one hand is the silver cane he always carried. For his bad leg, he always said, the one with the mildly sore knee, but Draco personally thought his father just liked using it to push people out of the way. 

“Well,” Draco says. “My father is dead, and so are his stupid little rules. Could you give your mother my compliments for her scones?” After a pause, he thinks his tone was a bit sharp, and adds perfunctorily, “Please.”

But Ron doesn’t look the slightest bit offended. 

In fact, he looks like he’s almost going to smile. 

* * *

The next afternoon, Hermione tracks Draco down. He’s in the parlour again, wondering if he could rope someone into a chess game. Neville, perhaps. Ron. Even Mrs Weasley.

“How are you finding the castle, Mr Malfoy?” Hermione asks without preamble, setting down a stack of paperwork on the coffee table. “Any particular concerns or complaints?”

Draco frowns at her. “No. Ought I have some?”

“Not at all,” Hermione says smoothly. “I just find that occasional feedback encourages a healthy employer relationship. Are you happy with Mrs Weasley’s cooking?”

“Yes, quite.”

Hermione looks rather satisfied with herself, and ticks off something on her notepad. “And Neville?”

“Yes, he’s quite an adept landscaper. I appreciate the fresh flowers.”

“They do add a nice bit of colour to all those dark hallways.” Hermione moves her pen down the notepad, hovering the nib over the paper expectantly. “Ron and Harry?”

“Well, I haven’t seen them around much.”

“Yes, that’s how it’s supposed to be. Ideally, the castle should look clean and well-maintained, yet you see very little of the work being done.”

“Sounds like one of my father’s morals.”

Hermione’s polite little smile slips somewhat. “Yes,” she says. “I suppose it’s difficult to let go of the habits and values of an employer that one had for so many years.” She clears her throat, makes another neat little tick, and says, “The Lovegoods will be visiting in a couple of months. Ginny and Luna. They’re the conservationists.”

“The conservationists?”

“They check the grounds, and make sure everything is in order,” Hermione says. “That we’re not illegally felling trees or clearing land, and we’re fulfilling our obligations to the Scottish land trust.”

“Oh. I didn’t realise — should I — ”

“Oh, no, Mr Malfoy. That’s _my_ job. Making sure it all runs smoothly. Speaking of which – do you have any concerns about my role?”

Draco hesitates. “Well. I don’t even notice what you do. Which I suppose means you’re doing a very good job.”

To his surprise, Hermione — so far, all polished words and stony expressions — actually straightens up a little, looking proud of herself. “Thank you,” she says, and it sounds genuine. “Mr Malfoy never believed I could manage such a role, but I _always_ — ” She cuts herself off and closes her ledger. “Anyway. I’m glad you’re finding everything to your satisfaction.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Hermione leaves, her shoes neatly clip-clopping against the flagstone floors, and Draco feels guilty for thinking of her so unkindly, like a prudish schoolmarm. Suddenly, her prim behaviour makes sense; she’s trying to prove herself, and determined not to put a single foot wrong. _Her parents were dentists,_ he recalls Ron saying. _Lucius never thought she was good enough_. Well, Draco could have spared Hermione the long years of endless trying, and told her the truth: She’d never be good enough. He was Lucius’s own son, after all, and _he_ was never good enough either.

Draco looks down at the chessboard, the pieces set neatly in place, forever waiting for someone to play.

* * *

Winter creeps closer, bringing chilly and hollow winds, and Draco thinks it’s perfect for the Amber Suite, only he’s been avoiding those rooms for a reason he can’t quite remember. Only that he has the vague feeling somebody told him not to go there. Which is silly, since he _is_ the master of this castle.

But regardless, he goes to the Ruby Suite instead. 

It _does_ seem familiar. Draco rests a hand on the overstuffed armchair. Peculiar, he thinks. He’s never spent significant time in this room. He’s certain of it. And yet...

The light shifts over the wall; for a moment, there seems to be a shadow of a man cast upon the stone. Draco glances over his shoulder at the doorway, where the light from the hallway pours inside, but it’s empty. 

“Hello?” he says, his voice sharp and stern. 

_Hello, hello._ The word echoes twice before being silenced by the thick tapestries and armchairs. It must have been Ron or Hermione walking past the room, he decides. After a moment — feeling foolish about it – Draco gets up, crosses the room, and shuts the door. He turns around and comes face-to-face with an elderly man dressed neatly in an old-fashioned travelling cloak.

“Oh! Excuse me, I don’t recall you introducing yourself,” Draco says stiffly. 

“I’m the Clock-Winder, sir.”

“The...? Oh. Right. Mr Dumbledore, wasn’t it?” Draco glances about the room. There’s a grandfather clock in the corner, a great beast of fiddleback wood and lead glass. A little gold clock on the mantle. A cuckoo-clock on the far wall, kitschy and irritating. “Well, there’s plenty — ”

The man reaches out and pushes Draco. It’s a hard shove, enough to send him stumbling backwards, and he falls over a footstool and finds himself lying on the floor. He rises in a moment, full of outrage, but then he pauses. Something is _wrong._

The Clock-Winder seems to have vanished into thin air. The light looks different, somehow. Soft, amber, the honey-glow of a late summer afternoon. 

“...catch a big one. What’re they called? Erm. Trout, I think. Or… or salmon.”

Draco looks around, still a little disoriented from his fall. There’s a little boy sitting nearby, dark-haired and familiar. His head is bent low over a book.

“What do you reckon?” the boy asks, and that voice is curiously familiar. “Says here that there’s loads of haddock too. I don’t like haddock, though. My uncle makes me cook them for breakfast. Yuck.”

Draco feels all wrong. His perspective has gone funny. He lifts a hand; it seems small and childlike. He looks up, gazing across the room. He can see his reflection in a gold-rimmed mirror. He’s a child, small and wispy-haired, his eyes large and grey. 

“Draco,” the boy says, looking up at last. Those bright eyes...Draco _knows_ this boy somehow. “Draco. Are you listening?”

“This… this isn’t right,” Draco says weakly, and his voice comes out much too thin and high. 

“Oh,” the boy says with disappointment. “Well, I suppose we can go fishing somewhere else. Only you _did_ say that your father wouldn’t mind. But if you’ve changed your mind...” 

And then the boy suddenly vanishes, and Draco blinks.

He’s sitting in one of the overstuffed armchairs. The grandfather clock ticks, its heavy pendulum swinging monotonously. The weak late-autumn sunlight struggles through the window.

“There you are, Mr Malfoy!” Mrs Weasley bustles into the room, the tea service rattling cheerfully in front of her. “Tea? Scone? Fresh cream, bought it at the dairy this morning. You know, this castle used to have its own dairy. Back when it was a proper estate.”

Draco gazes at her blankly. “Sorry,” he says after a moment, and his voice feels as though it takes forever to climb out of his throat. “Sorry, I was… just… I fell asleep. I had a most peculiar dream...”

“Oh, this is a very comfortable room, isn’t it? I don’t blame you the slightest for sneaking a nap.” Mrs Weasley sets the teacup on the side-table and raises the teapot. “Just look at these lovely armchairs. So cosy. And — ”

“If you don’t mind, Mrs Weasley, I might take my tea in the kitchens.” Draco abruptly stands up.

“The… the kitchens?”

“Yes. If that’s all right,” he adds. The kitchens. Bright and busy and full of other people. He has such a strange feeling right now, and the thought of being his own company is suddenly rather terrifying. 

“Well… of course,” Mrs Weasley says, looking puzzled. “It’s a bit of a mess at the moment, Mr Malfoy, I’m doing a nice braised pork for dinner and it needs to be slow-cooked… are you _sure_ you wouldn’t rather have your tea here? It’s terribly comfortable.”

Draco looks at her kindly face, and falters for a moment, then says, “It was the dream.”

“The dream?”

“The peculiar dream. It’s unsettled me.”

“Oh! Oh, this castle can give you the jitters.” Mrs Weasley pats his hand. “Felt it a few times, myself. There’s a cold spot on the stairs, have you noticed?”

“No.”

“Well. You will. Just remember not to look up when you _do_ feel it. Come on, dear.”

They go to the kitchens together. Ron’s there, pouring a cup of tea, and there’s Harry standing beside him. And in that moment, Draco sees perfectly the resemblance to the boy, and blurts out — quite involuntarily — “Harry?”

Harry looks up. Ron looks quite annoyed.

“Why are you in here, Mr Malfoy?” he demands.

“I do apologise,” Draco says, taken aback. “I was under the impression this was _my_ kitchen.”

Harry laughs; Ron’s ears go red.

“Well — yes, of course, I was just — this is where I usually — I don’t — ”

Draco takes mercy on him. “I suppose my father would never step foot in here.”

“Er...no,” Ron admits. “He’s probably rolling in his grave right now. He’d rather fall down the stairs than step foot in the servant’s quarters.”

“Well, I’m not my father.” Draco stops, annoyed with himself, remembering Ron mocking him after he first arrived. _I’m Mr Malfoy now!_ And he waits for Ron to swap a sly glance with Harry, or smirk down at the floor.

But Ron does neither.

“No,” he says instead. “You’re not.”

“Mr Malfoy can sit here a while,” Mrs Weasley says, patting Draco’s arm. “Long as he stays out of my way while I sort out this pork.”

Draco does. He sits on a wooden step-stool in the corner, marked with flour, and watches the bustle of the kitchens. Mrs Weasley talks to herself constantly as she reads recipes and pokes about in the larder. Ron and Harry finish their tea, swap a few jokes, and return to work. Hermione arrives to filch a biscuit from the tin on the sideboard. Neville comes with an armful of tatties and neeps for dinner. “Freshly dug,” he tells Mrs Weasley, and she nods approvingly. 

For a while, the loneliness subsides, but in some ways it’s worse afterwards, when Draco sits at the head of the long, empty table in the dark dining room, and listens to the cheerful chatter coming from the kitchen. 

* * *

Draco spends the next day in the parlour. He decides he quite likes the room. It always has fresh flowers in it, and the musty smell vanishes after the window’s been open for a while. The portraits are quite nice, save for the stern picture of Lucius Malfoy. There’s a little boy in a grey double-breasted coat, sitting on a chair, a beagle sleeping at his feet. To the left of it is another portrait, of a woman with long blonde hair. She’s gazing out a window, holding a lake-reed in her hand.

“They must be ancestors of mine,” Draco says to Ron, who is diligently replacing the wilting flowers.

Ron doesn’t look up from the vase. “Yeah, they’ve got the Malfoy look.”

Draco’s gaze falls to the white lilies. “Neville brought in some blue and pink asters for the hallways,” he says. “Maybe you could add some.” He never used to be one for flowers, but he must admit they add a certain liveliness to the house, and he appreciates it.

“Nah,” Ron says, rearranging the lilies. “Funeral flowers only.” He considers his handiwork, then trims a yellowing leaf. After a moment, he seems to sense Draco’s gaze, for he looks up and says, “Oh! I meant...white lilies only. That’s how she likes it.”

“She?”

Ron straightens up and puts his shears in his pocket. “Never mind.”

Draco regards him for a moment, then nods at the boy in the grey coat. “That little boy, he’s got the same eyes as me. Definitely a Malfoy. Must be.” He drops his gaze to the little plaque beneath the frame. _Scorpius Malfoy, 1824-1828._ “He died young.”

Ron glances at him. “Best not to look too closely at the portraits in here.”

“Why? They’ll come to life and eat me, I suppose,” Draco says, rolling his eyes.

Ron’s ears go red and he turns and leaves, flower stems clutched in one hand. Draco catches the eye of his father’s portrait and glares at it. He must stop this. He knows he’s being rude, yet he can’t seem to help it. Perhaps he’s channeling his father. Perhaps _that’s_ the castle ghost. His father, striding about the place, nudging people aside with his silver cane.

Draco gives his father a contemptuous look and turns to the other portrait, the nicer one. Of the woman looking out the window. Draco can’t see her face, only the back of her head. The blonde hair is coiled up into a neat little bun. She appears to be looking at a view of the lake. Her hands are clasped to one side of her lap, the reed caught between her fingers. 

Draco can’t seem to look away, and the more he looks, the more he’s certain she’s turning her head. One tiny, tiny movement at a time. He’s _sure_ of it. Her ear — could he see that earlier? No — or if he did, surely it was only the slightest line, hidden by hair. Now he can see her earlobe, and the curve of her jaw — no, perhaps it was always there? Her temple, smooth and white. Her cheekbone. Her face turning, turning to look at him —

No, no, he’s imagining things.

Draco closes his eyes.

When he opens them, the room is dark and lit by long candles. Draco yawns and looks down at the papers on his desk. Almost done illustrating the book, he thinks.He lays the pages out across his desk, being careful not to smudge the ink. He’s particularly pleased with the intricate hedgehog he’s drawn. It will make a splendid birthday present for Scorpius next week.

There’s a knock on the door and a flustered maid appears, wearing a long dress and a bonnet. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, I don’t want to interrupt — ”

“What is it?” Draco asks tersely. “I’m rather busy, it’s — ”

“I know, only — I wouldn’t interrupt if — it’s Scorpius,” the maid finishes.

Draco stands up at once, his heart beating fast. “What do you mean? What’s happened?”

“He was walking through the woods with his governess, and she said he kept running ahead and she _told_ him not to do it, but — we can’t find him.” The maid keeps her eyes trained on the ground.

“What? She _lost_ him? She’s his governess, her _entire_ job is to — where was he last seen? _Where?”_ Draco hurries from the room, pushing past the maid.

“By the mill. You know how he likes to explore… we’ve been looking high and low for an hour now, and — ”

“I should have been told at once!” Draco snatches up an overcoat. Next to it, there’s a tiny grey coat, and he stops before abruptly grabbing it. “It’s winter, he’ll be _freezing_ cold — have the cook prepare some hot soup. I want everyone else out there looking!”

The maid nods once and scurries away. Draco charges down the hallway, through the foyer, and out the doors.

It’s a winter afternoon, the sky bleak and white, a light rain drizzling over the fields. There’s servants in the distance, searching the orchards. The gardeners are checking flowerbeds and hedges. Their voices rise and fall. _Scorpius! Scorpius!_

Draco’s voice soon joins theirs. He searches the fields, the woods, the trees. He finds the kite Scorpius lost last summer, still tangled in a birch tree. He finds the shoes Scorpius lost a few weeks ago, and got in terrible trouble for doing so. He finds the secret treehouse Scorpius built with him last year, near the ancient oak tree.

But he doesn’t find Scorpius.

Draco shouts until his voice is hoarse, and he walks until his feet ache. He’s lost sight of the other searchers, though he can still hear them. The rain is coming down. The mud gathers round his shoes. Winter is bringing an early night. Darkness creeps along the land. Draco can barely see now, yet still he walks, until he’s nearly back at the castle, slipping and sliding along the muddy banks on the far side of the lake, and he’s vaguely aware of someone calling for him.

And then a gardener stumbles to him, tweed cap clutched in his hand, the tears trickling down his weathered face.

“We found him,” the gardener says brokenly, and points a trembling finger to the lake. “We found him.”

Draco looks up.

The lake is nothing but a vast shadow in the heavy dusk, but he can see something small and white floating silently on the surface.

* * *

Draco jolts awake, gasping for breath, and he sees the concerned faces of Hermione and Harry looking at him.

Hermione nudges Harry. “Step back, give him some space.”

Draco sits up slowly. He’s aware of the tears slowly drying on his face, but it takes him a moment to look down and notice the mud halfway up his trousers, and his waterlogged shoes, and the dirt and leaves caught on his shirt. He gazes blankly at the mess, then raises his gaze to the portrait of the woman. 

The Mother.

Draco leans forward and puts his face in his hands. He feels as if he might be sick.

“Yes,” Hermione says. “I felt like that too, first time it happened.”

“Take a moment. You need it,” Harry adds.

Draco gets up slowly, and walks to the portrait. He doesn’t know why he was so frightened of seeing the woman’s face, for she looks quite lovely save for the expression of deep sorrow. He gazes at her for a moment, and it really does seem like she’s looking at him. Her pale blue eyes bore into his, her mouth a thin and trembling line.

After a long moment, Draco drops his gaze. He stares down at his muddy shoes. He feels utterly exhausted suddenly, and half-starved. “I’ll… I’ll go change,” he says. His voice is raspy and worn thin, and his throat hurts.

Hermione stands up, smoothing her dress. “I’ll ask Mrs Weasley to bring the tea service up,” she says. “Harry, you can go back to the conservatory and finish your work.”

Draco drags himself upstairs without another word, to the reassuringly portrait-free Emerald Suite.

* * *

Draco spends the next week staying away from the parlour. He is frightened, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it. Frightened of feeling that terrible grief again, strong enough to bring him to his knees; strong enough to stain his face with tears. He hasn’t cried in years, not since his mother’s death, and he hates the feeling of it. He stays away from the Amber Suite with its honeyed light and little invitations, and he stays away from the parlour with its musty smell.

He goes to the Ruby Suite instead, and when he opens the door, Harry startles.

“Oh!” He scrambles to stand up. He had been sitting on the floor, looking at little scratches made on the skirting boards, and Draco frowns at him.

“Don’t you have work to do?” 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he inwardly winces. Always, he thinks. Always saying the wrong thing. Always being too cold. 

But Harry doesn’t seem to mind. “I _am_ working. Getting rid of the scratches.” He holds up a can of furniture polish.

“Ron uses beeswax.” Another faint iciness to his tone. Draco gets annoyed with himself.

“I know. Already done that bit. Just finishing up now.” Harry hesitates for a moment, then says with a forced cheeriness, “Well, I’ll just be — ”

“What were you doing in the Great Hall?”

“What?”

“The day we met. In the Great Hall. You weren’t working yet. Hadn’t been hired. And Ron said you’d been barred from the property.”

Harry pauses, then tucks the polishing rag into his pocket. “What are you talking about?”

“The Great Hall. When we met, and you pointed out the skylight.”

Harry looks at him for a long moment, then says, “I don’t recall this.”

“You said some old phrase, something Gaelic. You _must_ remember.”

Harry drops his gaze. “Excuse me, I’m leaving at three and I’ve got to finish my work.” He pushes past Draco and steps into the hallway.

Draco stands alone, listening to Harry’s footsteps fade.

* * *

Pansy calls the next day. 

“I was waiting,” she says, “for you to call me.”

“Ah.”

“But you didn’t.”

Draco doesn’t reply. Pansy sighs. 

“I don’t think it’s good for you,” she says, “being stuck there, so far away from me. From everything. It must be dreadfully dull.”

Draco taps his fingers against the polished hallway table. Lucius never liked that habit. _Never fidget. It shows weakness. Anxiety. Nerves_. “It’s… curious,” he says.

“Oh? Running through the hallways at night with a candle, talking to ghosts?” Pansy laughs, then adds, “I don’t imagine there’s much besides the fields and the occasional cow. Have you been to the local village?”

“A few times. It’s what you’d expect.”

“You need to come back to London soon,” Pansy tells him. “You’ll go mad, stuck in the highlands with only cows and farmers for company.”

“I’ll arrange a trip soon. Anyway, I have to come back,” Draco says. “For your wedding.”

Pansy seems to cheer up a little, and chatters about her wedding plans. It’s odd to think of her in London. The busyness of the city, the noise and rush and brightness. His office, grey carpet and glass doors. The bars he used to go to on Friday night, the music loud and the drinks overpriced.

It feels worlds away.

“I’d better go,” Pansy says. “I’ve got an appointment with the baker. See you later.”

“All right. Best of luck with your piano-shaped cake.”

Pansy laughs and hangs up. Draco listens to the dial tone for a moment, then has the odd feeling someone is nearby. He turns around and gasps, clutching the receiver as if it might tether him to reality.

But it doesn’t. 

Dumbledore reaches out and pushes Draco hard.

* * *

The noise rises high into the domed ceiling. It’s the noise of a good time. People talking, laughing, arguing. Draco stands in the middle of the Great Hall and stares upwards into the ceiling. There’s no glass, he realises. It’s all wood.

He drops his gaze. The four great tables are still there, but they’re laden with plates and bowls of food. There’s the stink of a crowded room, the stale smell of unwashed clothes and lank hair. Straw lines the floor.

Nobody seems to take much notice of Draco. They laugh and push past him, greeting others, raising their little wooden cups. Draco glances down, taking stock of his clothing. Thin brogues, short buskins, a belted plaid. He touches his head, feeling soft cloth, and pulls the hat from his head. A blew bonnet. He turns it over in his hands. It feels so real.

But this must be a dream.

It _must_ be. 

“Malfoy!”

Draco looks up. A large man, cheerful and ruddy-faced, is moving toward him. The crowd parts; he seems to sail effortlessly through the party despite his bulk. 

“Be brave,” the man says, nudging Draco with his elbow. “Be brave and joyful!”

The man’s voice gives Draco a headache. It’s like listening to two conversations at once. He understands what the man is saying, and yet he doesn’t. There’s one voice, and yet there’s two. _Be brave and joyful,_ and _Togaibh misneach is sòlas._

“I… I don’t think I should be here,” Draco says, stepping back a little, and hears his own voice twice too. 

But the man only seems to hear one, and it’s the one he knows, for he simply shakes his head and claps a hand — huge and pock-marked, like a ruined castle — onto Draco’s shoulder with enough force to make him stumble. “Don’t speak like that, Malfoy.” The man glances about and lowers his voice. “Though many of us feel the same. We’re standing behind you and your father, you know. We’re loyal to _you_.”

“Oh,” Draco says weakly.

“Your father’s been doing a bit of whispering in a few listening ears. We’ll get old McErler to change his mind about the war. Pick the _right_ side.”

“The right side?”

The man drops his voice even lower, drawing Draco into a hug while he whispers in his ear. “Take heart. There’s many of us, lying in wait. We trust your father.” The man lets go of him, then bellows, “Ah! Yaxley, come here and _drink_ — ”

Draco stumbles back against the table. “Careful,” an amused voice says, and he looks up to see a man smiling at him, dark-haired and bright-eyed. He looks a little familiar, somehow.

“I think I’m lost,” Draco says, and the man laughs.

“Drunk already? Don’t spoil the night, Alexander. Wouldn’t want you to fall asleep too early.” The man moves as if pushing past Draco, and for a moment, he stands too close and speaks too soft. “Meet me at midnight. At our usual place.”

Draco turns, but before he can speak, someone else jostles him, and he stumbles back. Empty chairs clatter away, falling over dusty flagstones. The empty Great Hall lays before him, silent and smelling of stale air. 

“You all right?”

Draco jumps. Harry’s standing in the doorway, looking at him curiously. “Fine. Just...must have had a daydream.”

Harry pauses, then says, “About what?”

“I don’t remember,” Draco lies.

Harry looks at him, then nods once and turns away. 

* * *

Draco is on edge all week, and he’s annoyed about it. Like his skittish relatives, he thinks, jumping at shadows, ready to bolt at the faintest sound of a footstep. After just a couple of months, his nerves are frayed. He’d rather have a poltergeist throwing things, or a headless ghost trailing the hallways, than an old man with the ability to send Draco tumbling into...other places.

 _Other times,_ a voice whispers in the back of his head, but he ignores it.

And he’s right to be wary, for Dumbledore shows up on an overcast Sunday morning when Draco is walking briskly around the lake to clear his thoughts and soothe his nerves. After all, the ghosts are in the castle, he thinks. He hasn’t once seen a figure rise from the morning mists or stagger from the lake.

And then he rounds a little copse of trees and walks straight into Dumbledore. He reels backwards, falling into dewy grass, and all it takes is a single blink.

He’s looking up at a rainy sky tinged with dusk. The air is cruel with winter’s chill, and he’s surrounded by trees and dense brambles. 

Draco stands up gingerly, disentangling himself from the creeping brambles. God, where’s he been sent now? Well, wherever it is, he’ll return, he tells himself uneasily. Dumbledore hasn’t abandoned him yet.

Yet.

Just ahead of Draco, there’s a little boy in a woollen coat and grey trousers, leaning down to gently poke a paper sailboat with a stick. He watches it drift slowly along the creek, his pale face serious, his grey eyes following the slow progress of the boat. 

Draco looks at the boy again, then suddenly jumps to his feet. “Scorpius,” he says. 

The boy watches the boat bob along. It dips down a tiny rockfall, then starts gaining momentum.

“ _Scorpius_.”

Scorpius gets up and carefully follows the boat along, watching it. In the distance, Draco can hear the governess calling for him. Surely he _must_ hear, he _must_ know, any moment now he’ll lift his gaze...

Scorpius stumbles a bit as he walks along the bank. Draco automatically puts out his arm; Scorpius passes through it effortlessly, sending a cold shiver through Draco. No; it can’t be. That’s not _fair_ , Draco thinks. The other time, in the Great Hall, Draco was solid. People _saw_ him. And _now_ he’s a ghost? That’s not fair.

Scorpius pauses and looks over his shoulder, then takes another step forward. Disappointment clouds his face when he looks ahead; the creek is blocked by fallen brambles. The little paper boat has come to a stop. Scorpius leans forward and scoops it up, shaking the water from it. He looks up. Through the trees ahead, Draco can see what has caught Scorpius’s eye.

The lake.

“Scorpius!” Draco snatches at Scorpius’s coat as he passes by. “Scorpius! _Stop!_ Don’t go to the lake! _Scorpius!”_

His hands pass through Scorpius, and Scorpius gives a little shiver and frowns, looking around. Draco’s heart lifts with hope — Scorpius _can_ sense him. He seems puzzled, and touches his arm where Draco touched him, then glances ahead to the lake again. He’s uncertain now, Draco knows it. Unsettled. He’s thinking perhaps he ought to go home...

Draco stumbles suddenly, tripping over a tree root, and when he stands up again, he’s alone in the fields. The sky is heavy with unshed rain. It’s a cold and gloomy morning.

“What? No. No, _no_...take me back! Take me _back!”_ Draco charges through the field, the dew catching on his trousers and shirt, soaking him and bringing a bitter chill. “You _stupid_ old man! Take me back there! _Take me back!”_

There’s nothing but silence. The lake is still. The grass sways in Draco’s wake. He stands alone, chest heaving, his clothes soaked, and after a moment’s pause he tosses his ruined coat aside, filled with rage. The _one_ time he wants to see the Clock-Winder — of _course_ he’s alone now, of _course_ nobody is haunting him —

“Are you all right?”

Draco jumps. “Christ,” he says inadvertently, and Harry peers at him over an armful of weeds.

“Sorry. I was just weeding the path to the boat-house, and I thought I heard...” He pauses and gives a polite shrug.

Yes. He heard Draco shouting at the sky like a madman. Draco gives a very terse smile. “It was nothing. I was… looking for someone, that’s all.”

“Who?”

Draco pauses, about to put on his usual icy tone and tell Harry to mind his own business, but Harry’s face is nothing but open curiosity, with not a hint of mockery or amusement. “Just… an old man,” Draco mutters instead. “Dumbledore.”

Confusion furrows Harry’s brow. “Dumbledore,” he says slowly. “No, I don’t think I’ve met that one.”

“That one?”

Harry looks at him, then down at the weeds in his arms. “I’d… I’d better get back to work — ”

“What do you mean, _that_ one?”

“Neville’s probably looking for me, I said that — ”

“You’ve met The Reader.”

Harry pauses.

“You’ve met _that_ one,” Draco continues, watching Harry through narrowed eyes. “That’s what you meant, isn’t it? Pure malice, you called her. Told me to watch out for her books. What other ones have you met, then?”

“I’d better get back to work,” Harry says, this time firmly, and he turns away. For a moment Draco feels a mild sting of embarrassment and rejection — will Harry go running back to the house, telling them Draco’s just like the other batty Malfoy relatives, wide-eyed and full of ghost stories, ready to flee the castle? 

But then Harry pauses and adds without looking at him, “They don’t like it when you talk about them. Not _here._ Meet me at the inn at five.”

He turns and hurries away without waiting for a reply, leaving Draco alone once more in the field.

* * *

Draco goes to the kitchens and tells Mrs Weasley he won’t be having dinner at the castle. She looks at him for a long moment, then says, “I see. And what _exactly_ am I supposed to be doing with the sirloin I bought this morning, fresh as can be? The marinade I just finished making? The tattie scones I was planning to make with the dough that I chilled overnight, _specifically_ for your supper?”

“Er,” Draco says, at a rare loss for words. Very few things intimidate him, but apparently Mrs Weasley with a stained apron and angry expression are among them. “You can leave it in the fridge for tomorrow night, and I’ll reheat — ”

“Reheat? _Reheat?_ Reheat tattie scones? Reheat a slow-cooked sirloin? Reheat my freshly made gravy? Why don’t you just soak it in a sink of _old dishwater?”_

Draco glances around the kitchen for reinforcements, and finds only Ron, sitting on an apple crate and trying to glue the bits of a broken vase together, and Hermione carrying out an inventory of the larder.

“Ron,” he says pointedly. “I’m sure you have some suggestions — ”

“Can’t get involved,” Ron says without looking up. “As a relative of the employee in question, it would be unprofessional. Right, Hermione?”

Hermione, busy ticking things off a list and peering at dusty jars, pauses and gives Ron a long, measured look. She resumes her task without deigning to reply.

“ _Reheat_ it,” Mrs Weasley mutters under her breath, chopping up a carrot with alarming passion and a thunderous expression. “ _Reheat_. The utter _disregard_ for my craft, my hard _work_ — ”

“Why don’t you want dinner, anyway? You crook or something?” Ron asks, looking up.

Hermione’s voice floats from somewhere in the depths of the buttery. “ _Professionalism_ , Ronald.”

Ron pauses, then drops his voice low. “You crook or something?” he whispers to Draco.

Draco frowns at him. “Not that it’s any of _your_ business, but I’m going to the inn for supper.”

“The inn!” Mrs Weasley begins. “The _inn!_ Over my home-cooked, freshly made — ”

“I’m meeting someone,” Draco says with exasperation. “It can’t be helped. Anyway, so if you could please make other arrangements for the evening meal, Mrs Weasley — ”

“Who?” Ron demands. “Who’re you meeting? Is it a date?”

“No! It’s — business.”

“Business? Around _here?”_ Ron laughs and drops a shard of vase. “Thinking about going into sheep-farming, are you? Sell a few turnips?”

Hermione pops her head around the buttery door. “Who are you meeting?” she demands, disentangling a cobweb from her hair. 

“ _Professionalism_ , Hermione,” Ron says smugly. “Not your business.”

“The castle’s business _is_ my business. If Draco — if Mr Malfoy is considering some local investments, _especially_ concerning the land, then I need to — ”

“For God’s sake! I’m meeting Harry to discuss a few matters,” Draco says with exasperation. Bloody nosy people, the lot of them, he thinks crossly.

Ron’s eyes light up; he grins rather mischievously. “Well, _well._ Harry moves fast for someone who — ”

Hermione elbows him hard enough to send him toppling from the crate; Ron makes an alarmed noise and scatters bits of vase everywhere.

“What was _that_ for? I only — ”

“I certainly hope you’ve fixed that stable door, Ron. The foxes are coming around again and Clement needs somewhere safe to roost.”

Ron gets up, rubbing his side, and gives Hermione a look but leaves without a word.

Mrs Weasley begins humming a cheery little tune as she unties her apron. “It’s been lovely having Harry around here again. We did miss him _terribly_ when he moved away. Why didn’t you say you were meeting him for a chat, dear? Well, I’ll enjoy the night off, then. See you later.”

Draco stares after her, then looks at Hermione, feeling somewhat disgruntled with the change in attitude. “I take it she’s fond of Harry, then,” he says perhaps a little sourly. “If it’s _his_ fault, everything’s fine, apparently.”

Hermione gives him an expression that borders on amusement. “Apple of her eye. I wouldn’t say a word against him, if I were you.”

Draco’s unimpressed, but at least Mrs Weasley is in a good mood again.

 _Never annoy the cook,_ his mother always used to say, and now Draco very fervently understands why.

* * *

The local village is a twenty-minute trip away, down in the valley, and Draco has to suffer through the Black Prince. He has an argument with the ignition, loses his patience with the gearbox, and finally — and very curtly — accepts Neville’s third offer of help. Neville, to his credit, doesn’t mention his prior offers, just climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Just takes a bit of getting used to,” he says. “Anyway, it’s better this way. If you have a few pints at the inn, it doesn’t matter.”

“You drove it a lot, then?”

“Oh, yes. Mostly picking up your father’s friends from the station, that sort of thing. Your dad drove himself around, though. He quite liked it. Speeding along all those windy country roads, absolutely terrifying his passengers. Did I mention old Fudge with the weak heart?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Draco watches the fields go past. He can feel himself relaxing the farther they get from the castle. He watches it in the rear view mirror as it slowly becomes a speck, vanishing into nothing.

“What was he like, then?”

“Hm?” Neville doesn’t look away from the narrow road; he tries to coax the gearbox into second. It makes a few disagreeable noises. 

“My father. In his later years.”

“Oh. He was...” Neville slows down at a turnpike. “He was… he kept to himself. Spent a lot of time in his rooms.”

“I thought he enjoyed parties.”

“Not as he got older.” Neville checks for non-existent traffic, then turns onto the next road. “I’m afraid that’s all I know, really. Hermione would know more about him. He only really talked to me about the landscaping sometimes.”

“You were the one who found him.”

Neville flinches, but his gaze stays ahead, fixed on the horizon. The car bumps over the uneven asphalt. “Yes.”

“By the river, I’ve heard. In his nightclothes.”

“Yes.”

Draco falls silent. Neither of them speak again until they’re in the village. It’s small, nestled at the foot of the valley, surrounded by open farmland. The village centre is little more than a cluster of houses, a few shops, and the inn. 

“Well, here you are,” Neville says, forced joviality in his voice as he opens Draco’s door. “The Three Oaks. Just give the castle a ring when you’re ready. Not after dark, though.”

“I’ll approve the overtime. Hermione is very efficient about that sort of thing.”

“No, it’s...” Neville cuts himself off. “Yes. Right. I finish work at five, technically, but… right. Overtime.”

But his eyes betray him; his gaze drifts to the land beyond the village, beyond the farms. To the woods, where the river runs fast and dark. To where the mists come creeping. 

“Not after dark,” Draco says. “Right.”

Neville nods, and gets back into the car. Draco watches it putter off into the distance, then turns and steps into the inn.

It looks like every other village inn Draco has ever had the misfortune to step into: the faux wood panelling, the deer head over the unused fireplace. The scratched table-tops, the bland soft-rock music playing through tinny speakers. There’s only a handful of patrons here, and they all glance at Draco with that usual squinty suspicion that comes with village inns too. He makes them uneasy, he knows, and they don’t like him any more than he likes them. _That’s old Malfoy’s boy_ , he heard a few of them whisper the first time he visited the village, and they seemed unsettled. Nobody’s approached him or spoken to him. He’d expected irritating friendliness and nosy questions from some, or undisguised dislike from others, but he’s had neither. Everyone seems to avoid him. As though the Malfoy name is cursed.

“Draco!”

He winces and wishes Harry hadn’t called out _quite_ so loudly. A few people glance over at him again, their eyebrows raised, and Draco crosses the floor and sits next to Harry at a table that looks as though it’s probably seen Scotland’s first war for independence. 

“You needn’t have shouted,” he says curtly. 

Harry looks abashed. “Oh. Hi,” he adds after a moment, which only serves to make Draco feel bad for reasons he can’t pinpoint. “Got you a drink,” he says.

“Of what, pond-water?” Draco might have ventured into the local inn, but he draws the line at consuming a pint of cheap beer.

Harry says, after a long pause, “Could you _try_ being a human being?”

Draco looks down at the table, tries counting the cup-rings, gives up, then says, “Sorry.”

“That apology looked as if it were physically painful.”

“It was.” Draco’s surprised when he looks up and sees Harry smiling at him. 

“Whiskey, by the way,” Harry says, sliding a small glass over to him. “You’re in the highlands. It’d be a travesty if you didn’t drink the local whiskey.”

Draco has a sip of it. It’s smoky and strong and leaves a burn in the back of his throat, and it makes him realise exactly how smooth and sweet the drinks back in London were. All those bars with the big glass doors and shiny counters and loud music. He glances around the inn, at the wood paneling and the dull yellow filament lights. 

“Where’s the menu?”

Harry looks amused. “There’s none. Soup or toasted sandwiches. Take your pick.”

Draco frowns down at the table for a long moment, then says eventually, in a very flat tone, “A sandwich.” He can’t believe he missed Mrs Weasley’s sirloin steak and freshly-made tattie scones for this. 

Harry goes to the counter, shares a joke with the bartender, chats for a bit, and returns. “Be ready in a minute.”

“You know him?” Draco tilts his head toward the bartender.

“Dean? Yeah, of course. It’s hard to _not_ know anyone in this place.”

“You don’t know me.”

Harry looks at him, then away, and takes a long draught of his whiskey. “Suppose I don’t.”

“Mrs Weasley was all sunshine and roses as soon as I mentioned your name. Seems like you’re Saint Potter around here.”

Harry doesn’t look amused. “You wanted to talk about them,” he says abruptly. 

_Them._

“Not particularly,” Draco says, and he leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, putting on a cool air to cover up his embarrassment. Here, in the mundane little inn with its sandwiches and soup, it all suddenly seems so ridiculous. He thinks of Aunt Andromeda and how he’d rolled his eyes at her nerves, and he’s annoyed with himself. “I don’t think there’s much to discuss. Clearly I’ve just been having some bad dreams lately.”

Harry opens and closes his mouth several times, then says, “Seriously?”

“It’s the only explanation — ”

“Are you _kidding?_ You woke up last week on a sofa, exactly where you fell asleep, only you were covered in mud and leaves and crying over a drowned boy. Come on, Draco, you _know_ the castle now. You can’t keep pretending things make sense there.”

Draco gives him a cold look. “I must have been sleep-walking,” he says. “I had a dream, that’s all.”

“God, you’re so _stubborn!_ I suppose some things never change.”

“Stop it,” Draco snaps. “Stop speaking as if you know me.”

Harry mutters into his drink, “You’re right. I _don’t_ know you. Not these days.”

Dean shows up then, with awful timing, and sets the plates down. “How’s Ginny, Harry?”

“She’s well.”

“Luna?”

“Yes, she’s well too.”

Dean seems to be getting ready to settle into a comfortable conversation. “Oh yeah? Haven’t seen either of them for ages. Last time I saw them was at their wedding. Was hoping to have a word with Luna about the wasp nest we keep getting behind the wood-shed. Reckon she’ll have a few words of good advice, like usual. You know how she is — friend to all, even the pests,” he says with affection. “And the — ”

“Dean,” Harry says patiently, “We’ll catch up later.”

Dean looks at Harry, then at Draco, and says, “Oh. Right.” He hovers for a moment; Harry glares at Draco.

Draco gives him an annoyed look, then extends a hand to Dean. “Draco Malfoy,” he says with excruciating politeness.

Dean shakes his hand. “Yeah, we all know who you are.”

“Oh, lovely. I’m so glad.”

He made a mistake. The tone might have sailed over the head of someone like cheerful Neville, but Dean raises his eyebrows and withdraws his hand. “Talk to you later, Harry,” he says, turning away from Draco and leaving.

Harry’s glare doesn’t lessen. “Good to see you being friendly to the locals.”

“I don’t plan on sticking around long enough to get comfortable.”

“Oh? Thinking about climbing into a taxi at two in the morning?”

They look at each other; Draco’s the first to glance away, much to his irritation. “I’m not running away.”

“It sort of sounds like it.”

“I’m _not_. I’m just not expecting this to be a permanent residency. Anyway, there’s nothing to run away from.”

Harry sighs. He glances around, lowers his voice, and then says, “Look. I get it. I do. There’s all these odd things you can’t _quite_ explain, and things don’t seem to make sense. And you start doing stupid things, like running through fields and yelling at the sky.”

Draco flushes pink; he hastily takes another sip of his drink. 

“And then you leave. You come down here, to the village, with the bakery and general store and butcher shop, and the annoyed motorists yelling at the cows to get off the road, and you think it’s all just...” Harry waves a hand vaguely around. “Stories. A few coincidences, maybe a few bad dreams, a funny sound that you heard at midnight, whatever. And now you’re here, with a lot of safe distance between you and the castle, and you convince yourself that it’s nothing. All just a bad dream. Right? Nothing to run away from.”

Draco takes a bite of his sandwich if only to delay his reply, then finally says, “You seem to be speaking from experience.”

“I am.”

Draco considers him, then says, “Mrs Weasley said you’d moved back here recently.”

Harry frowns. “That’s right,” he says slowly. 

“You used to live here?”

“Grew up here. Moved to Surrey when I was eleven.”

Draco can see Harry’s displeased with the subject change, but he doesn’t particularly care. It’s almost amusing, really, to watch Harry squirm. Let _him_ be on the receiving end of uncomfortable questions. “Parents didn’t like it here? Saw something up at the castle, maybe?”

“They died when I was a baby. They both drowned in the river.” Harry pushes his plate away. 

All amusement rushes out of Draco then. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Look, I came here to help you, not talk about my personal life, so...” He stands up. “See you tomorrow. Nine o’clock sharp, like usual.”

“Right.”

Harry leaves. 

Draco stares down at his plate, all appetite lost. 

* * *

Neville is a little anxious at the time — sunset is rapidly approaching — but he manages a cheerful smile anyway when Draco steps into the car.

“Nice little inn, isn’t it? Good view over the fields. Did you meet Dean? Nice bloke. Always got time for a chat. And — ”

“Did Harry’s parents die at the castle?”

Neville’s mouth hangs open for a moment, then he closes it. “Er. That’s really...that’s something you should talk to Harry about.”

“I did.”

Neville glances at him disapprovingly. “Look, if this is morbid curiosity — ”

“I need to know what happened. It’s just...sometimes there’s… there’s… things _happen_ at the castle, and I thought… perhaps… Harry’s parents...”

“Ah,” Neville says, and his stern expression dissipates. “The… visitors. You want to know if Harry’s parents are among them.”

 _The visitors._ Draco suddenly remembers Neville’s comment on his very first day at the castle. _Oh, the visitors. You’ll get used to them._

“No,” Neville says. “No, I’ve never seen James or Lily, and neither has anyone else. Harry tells Ron and Hermione everything — they’re very close friends — but he’s never mentioned seeing his parents.”

“Oh,” Draco says, and he doesn’t know if that’s a relief or not. James and Lily. Harry’s parents. “Did… it wasn’t _Harry_ who found them, was it? It _couldn’t_ have been — ”

Neville shakes his head. “Your dad found them,” he says. “By the river. He never told you that?”

Draco says nothing, and silence smothers them until they’re in the long shadows of the castle again. 

* * *

Draco goes to the fields the next day, and the lake, and the orchards. He goes to the conservatory, the stables. 

Looking for ghosts.

Harry was right. In the safety of the cosy inn and ordinary people, the castle and its odd inhabitants just seemed like a bad dream somehow. And part of Draco’s mind is still working hard to believe that. Just a bad dream.

Just stories. Ghost stories, read by torchlight beneath covers at midnight. Just noises. A bump in the dark. Just the sound of a house settling and creaking. Just vivid dreams. 

So he searches. But the fields are empty, the gardens quiet. He goes to the Amber Suite and looks for the little books left lying around. A housefly buzzing against glass. Sunshine on the covers. But the room is dreary, filled with gloom from the overcast autumn morning, and the books are all neatly shelved. The Ruby Suite is still and silent. Even in the parlour, the portrait of the Mother seems perfectly ordinary. 

The staff go about their business. Mrs Weasley is in the kitchen gardens, picking herbs. Neville and Ron are tidying up the garden paths. Harry is fox-proofing the stables as Clement watches with interest. Hermione is in one of the studies, making annoyed phone calls to a landscape supplier. The castle seems to be continuing leisurely onwards through another ordinary day. 

It makes Draco feel as though he _is_ going mad. It’s as if the castle knows he has been talking about it, and now it’s spitefully silent. 

He goes into the Sapphire Suite. He hasn’t spent much time in this room, navy-blue with silver trim and looking pretty as a starry night sky. It seems a pleasant place.

Then again, he once thought the front parlour was a pleasant place, marred only by that odd musty smell. Slightly damp. That faint stink of trapped moisture.

Like a body, he thinks, pulled from the lake. Impossibly small and wrapped in a woollen coat.

Draco gazes out the window across the grounds. The lake glitters like hammered silver beneath the weak sunlight. 

“Send me back, you old bastard,” he mutters. 

“Back to where?”

Draco glances over his shoulder at Harry, then lifts his hand from the window. The lace curtain, thin and translucent as delicate skin, falls across the glass. 

“Back to the lake,” he says.

Harry gives him a curious look. “Why? What’s at the lake?”

“Scorpius.”

A devastated expression flashes over Harry’s face. “Oh, Scorpius,” he says, and he sounds so heartbroken that it nearly makes the grief come back all over again. Draco sets his face in stone and turns away, refusing to look at Harry.

“You’ve met him, then.”

“No,” Harry says, still in that tone that makes Draco want to weep as though it were his own child he lost. “No. I only… saw him. From a distance.”

Something white and small. Floating on the lake, in the darkness of winter.

“Well, I’m going back to the lake,” Draco mutters, still staring hard at the white lace curtain. “I’m going to save him.”

“Draco,” Harry says, his voice annoyingly gentle. “He’s been dead for more than a century. You can’t save him.”

“I can. I’m going to. If it’s the last bloody thing I do.”

Harry continues in that gentle, soft voice, as though he thinks Draco’s on the verge of a breakdown. “You can’t turn back time.”

Draco finally looks at him, then. “You know,” he says, “I had a funny dream about you.”

Harry blinks at the subject change. “Oh.”

“We were little kids. Isn’t that funny? Sitting in the Ruby Suite.”

Harry says nothing. 

“We were talking about going fishing in the river,” Draco says. “We were just kids. About ten or eleven, if I had to guess.”

Harry still doesn’t speak. After a moment, Draco adds, “Didn’t you say that you left this area when you were eleven?”

“Yeah,” Harry says without looking at him.

“Why did you leave?”

Harry steps back, then holds up a polishing rag. “Got to finish the silverware. I’m supposed to leave in half an hour. See you later.”

Draco watches him go, then twitches the curtain aside again, staring at the lake.

* * *

A week passes without incident. Draco befriends Clement by feeding him various treats from the kitchen; Clement daintily eats the cantaloupe, but leaves a pile of rejected cucumber politely by the kitchen door. Mrs Weasley tells Draco off.

“Don’t spoil the creature, he’ll expect a life of luxury,” she says, but there’s fondness in her voice and Draco catches her singing to Clement sometimes through the kitchen window. 

He plays the piano in the drawing room, pressing the yellowed keys down in an out-of-tune rendition of _Lavender’s Blue_ and _Early One Morning_ and all the other folk songs that his mother taught him to play as a child. Somehow, they all manage to gradually morph into a melancholy tune which Draco hardly remembers learning, and seems a little too complex for his indifferent childhood lessons. 

He does the crosswords in his daily newspaper, which always brings fascinating headlines like _Rare Owl Spotted In Kinbrace_ and _Station Cottage Tea Rooms Grand Opening._ He writes letters to Pansy, knowing she’ll laugh at them and call him old-fashioned. _Haven’t you ever heard of the telephone, Draco?_

He reads the books in the Sapphire Suite; they’re all about astronomy and stars. He looks up the Draco constellation, and the Andromeda one for his favourite aunt and the Bellatrix star for his least favourite aunt. 

His mother never had a star. She was named for a flower, and Lucius named after the Latin word for light. Narcissa used to call Lucius the light of her life; a terrible pun, but one he would always indulge. Back when they were still a family. Before Lucius disappeared north. Before the parties and too-loud friends and cigars and whiskey and speeding on dark country roads.

Draco puts the books away. He goes for long walks around the orchards, and flower gardens, and the fields, hoping yet dreading the sight of the Clock-Winder. He picks fresh white lilies for the front parlour.

On Sunday evening, after supper, he goes to the drawing room and idly plays _Daisy Bell_ , and he scarcely notices the cheerful, simple chords have collapsed into a meandering song of lingering notes and melancholia. 

“That’s a sad song.”

Draco looks up. Harry is leaning against the doorway, watching him play.

“Why are you still here? You’re supposed to finish at three.” Draco keeps playing without really thinking about it, the notes seemingly playing themselves. “Hermione doesn’t like unapproved overtime. Ruins her precise spreadsheets.”

“Off the clock.”

“It’s past seven. Go home.”

Harry tilts his head. “I know it,” he says. “I _know_ that song. Just can’t think of the name.”

Draco abruptly lifts his hands from the keys and shuts the dusty lid. “Why are you still here?”

Harry says nothing for several moments, evidently more interested in looking at his scuffed shoes. Then he mutters, “I feel like I should stay.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, well. In _that_ case I’ll get Ron to make up a guest suite and put a mint on the pillow,” Draco begins acerbically, but Harry cuts him off. 

“Remember that time you were in your room, looking at your face in the window reflection? And I came in, saying I’d fallen asleep doing a task?”

“Yes,” Draco says suspiciously.

“Well...” Harry hesitates. “I hadn’t fallen asleep accidentally. I stayed on purpose. I just… had a feeling. That I might be needed. I’ve the same feeling tonight.”

 _Superstition_ , a small part of Draco’s mind whispers. _Just stupid superstition. Laugh it off. Ask if he’ll protect you from the wandering ghosts and cackling ghouls. Roll your eyes, sneer at him._

But that part of his brain has been silenced more and more lately.

“If you _must_ stay, then,” Draco says, tidying the stacks of old music books. “You can take the Ruby Suite. Like old times.”

Harry looks at him strangely. “Like old times.”

Draco pauses, then shakes his head. “Can’t think why I said that. Must be tired. I’ll fetch Ron,” he adds briskly.

“Oh, don’t do that. Ron and Hermione went home at five, I don’t want to disturb them. I can make my own bed.” 

“There’s cheese and bread in the larder if you get hungry.” Draco steps from the drawing room, turning the light off. He resists the urge to look over his shoulder, though he’s suddenly sure he’s being watched. Something, in the darkness, is waiting for him to leave.

He closes the door with a snap and hurries down the hallway, suddenly reassured by Harry’s solid presence.

* * *

  
  


He falls asleep a little easier than he thought he would. The Ruby Suite, directly above his own rooms, is quiet apart from a few pacing footsteps at midnight, which are loud enough to wake Draco. It’s just Harry, he tells himself a little nervously, but it takes him a while to fall asleep again.

When he wakes next, it’s some time in the pre-dawn hours. Faint grey creeps beneath the curtains. 

“Draco.”

He sits up, instantly alert. “Harry? What’s wrong?”

There’s no reply. Draco gets up, listening intently. The voice had been muffled, coming from somewhere nearby. He goes into the empty sitting room. “Harry? Did something happen?”

“Draco.” Harry’s voice again. 

“What? Where are you? Are you alright?” Draco opens the door to the hallway. It’s a little lighter out here. Everything is caught in the gloomy grey light. Dawn is coming. “Harry?”

“That’s a sad song.”

“What? What do you mean?” Draco peers along the hallway. It vanishes into darkness.

“Off the clock.”

“What? I _know_ you’re off the clock...tell me where you are. I can’t see you.” He walks carefully down the hallway, feeling his way along it, bumping into spindly-legged side tables and oversized vases. “Harry?”

“I know it. I _know_ that song.”

Draco reaches out, his hand closing around the smooth, cold handle of the door to the Sapphire Suite. “You in here, Harry?” He glances down, seeing a warm and inviting light shining through the crack in the door.

“I feel like I should stay.”

“In the Sapphire Suite?” Draco says. 

“Yes.”

Draco opens the door.


	5. The Child

The light comes from a warm and welcoming fire. His mother sits by it, humming _Early One Morning_ as she embroiders a pillow-case.

“Mother?” Draco asks incredulously. He _knows_ she’s not real, she _can’t_ be real, she’s been dead seven years —

“Well, be useful, darling.” Narcissa nods at the familiar old piano in the corner. The one that used to be in the parlour of their manor in Gloucestershire. “Play along. Practice for your father.”

Draco doesn’t move. “Father’s dead.”

Narcissa stills, her long sharp needle resting between her fingers. She turns slowly to stare at Draco with unblinking eyes. “Sit,” she says after a long moment. “Play along.”

Draco goes to the stool and sits. He lifts his hands to the keys and stares unseeingly down at them, then starts to methodically play _Early One Morning_ , acutely aware of his mother standing behind him. She leans down to follow the music, watching as he plays, and he can smell something sweet and unpleasant. Like old fruit, left to rot on the ground, the liquefying flesh soon consumed by wasps. Wasps. Dean had a problem with wasps. Luna was going to fix it. Luna, lunar. The moon. Waxing, waning.

Draco is aware he isn’t thinking properly. He stares down at his fingers as they clumsily hit keys. They feel like they belong to someone else. They’re not his hands. 

Narcissa straightens up and moves away, taking the sweet reek with her. She embroiders as she walks, murmuring the lyrics. “ _Oh, don’t deceive me… oh, never leave me...”_

Draco finishes the song and plays _Lavender’s Blue,_ and then _Greensleeves_ , and all the while Narcissa paces around behind him as sweat prickles the back of his neck. He should _do_ something, he thinks, he should flee, and yet fear paralyses him.

“You know, you never did keep up your practicing,” Narcissa says idly. Draco can hear her embroidering as though it’s right next to his ear. The little puncturing noise of the needle piercing taut cloth. The long, slow rasp of the thread being pulled tight. “Such a waste of lessons. Are you listening?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“You never amounted to much. A comfortable job in one of your father’s consultancy firms. A tidy inheritance. And look where it’s led you. A bland, boring man who can play simple children’s songs on the piano. Go on, play _Daisy Bell_ again.” A faint and mocking edge to her voice. 

Draco’s fingers falter. Narcissa takes a step toward him; he begins playing again.

“Your father was complicated,” Narcissa continues. Puncture, pull. Pierce, rasp. “He had his flaws. But he was ambitious. Clever. Charismatic. People were drawn to him. Nobody’s drawn to you. You’re a shadow of Lucius. Dull and frightened and weak.” 

Draco keeps playing.

“You could have at least taken after me,” Narcissa says. “My resolve. My determination. But you just float about on the tides, letting them take you where they will. You haven’t an ounce of my grace or strength, do you? Do you? _Answer me,_ ” and there’s a rush of wind and she’s standing beside him again, her breath washing over him. The sickly sweet stink is suffocating; his eyes water.

“No,” he chokes out.

“What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing.”

Narcissa grabs his face, her bony fingers digging into his cheeks, and turns him to face her. Her eyes are too large, her mouth sagging, her face drooping. The words claw their way out of her misshapen mouth. “Go see him. So you can remember how pathetic he is.”

And he’s suddenly falling, tumbling wildly through darkness that seems endless, and he can’t help but cry out, reaching into nothing —

He hits the floor hard. It’s smooth and earthen, and he stays where he is, frozen with terror, smelling the damp dirt and not daring to move.

Somebody’s crying.

Draco stares into the darkness until his eyes hurt. The crying goes on and on. It’s a child, he thinks. Scorpius?

“Hello,” he whispers, and there’s a wail of terror and suddenly a little boy is there, looking at him with terrified grey eyes and matted blond hair, and it’s _him,_ Draco realises, it’s _him_ down in this cellar, little eleven-year-old Draco crying in the dark, and there’s a memory rising, rising —

“Let me out!” Draco shouts, scrambling away from the little child-Draco. “No! _No!_ Let me out! Let me out! _Let me out! Let me — ”_

Something grabs him, and he twists wildly for a moment, blind with panic, until he blinks and sees the thin light of dawn, and he’s lying on the blue carpet of the Sapphire Suite with its pretty silver trim and shelves of astronomy books, and his clothes are soaked with sweat and Harry’s there, leaning over him, gripping his arms painfully tight.

“You wouldn’t wake up,” Harry says, looking frightened.

Draco doesn’t like that expression on Harry’s face. It unnerves him. Harry shouldn’t ever be frightened. He’s the sort of person who Draco suspects is fearless to the point of foolishness. 

“I’m all right.” Draco sits up. His voice is raspy. He shivers; the hearth is dark and empty, and his damp clothes are rapidly cooling. He pulls a face. “Suppose I’d better have a shower.”

Harry looks at him, the frightened expression fading into concern. That, Draco can deal with. He waves Harry away.

“I’m fine. Suppose I fell asleep in here. I think I had a nightmare.”

“Please don’t,” Harry begins in a pained voice, but Draco shakes his head.

“I’m not trying to convince myself otherwise. I promise. I honestly don’t remember anything except falling asleep in my bed. You woke me up around midnight with your footsteps, and I went back to sleep again, and...” Draco looks around the Sapphire Suite. “I suppose something must have happened.”

“There weren’t any footsteps.”

“I heard them. Directly above. From the Ruby Suite.”

A little crease appears in Harry’s brow. “I was awake until one or two. Couldn’t sleep. There weren’t any footsteps.”

“Oh.”

They look at each other, then Harry stands up and extends a hand, helping Draco to his feet. “You honestly don’t remember anything?”

“No.” Draco follows him into the hallway. Dawn has properly arrived now, and it’s being kind to the furnishings and portraits, hiding scratches and stains with its dim light. “The Sapphire Suite,” he says slowly, trying to think how to phrase it. “Who… visits it?”

The crease in Harry’s brow only deepens. “I don’t know. I avoid it.”

“Why?” 

Harry thinks for a long moment. Draco waits, his hand resting on the door handle to his rooms.

“Because it calls me,” Harry says at last. “With a light beneath the door, or a song, or someone shouting for help. But I know nobody’s in there. And I figure that when a room in a haunted castle is calling you, then you’d best not answer.”

Draco looks at him. Perhaps Harry isn’t as foolish as he thought. 

In fact, perhaps Draco is the foolish one.

“I’ll try to remember that next time,” Draco says, and he opens the door and steps inside before pausing just for a minute and adding a quiet but genuine, “Thank you.”

Harry gives him the ghost of a smile.

Draco closes the door and goes to the bathroom, undressing quickly as he stands on the chilly tiles. As he steps beneath the soothing hot water of the shower, he absently murmurs the remnants of a half-remembered song.

_Oh, don’t deceive me,_

_Oh, never leave me ..._

* * *

On Monday, the temperatures drop low, and at four o’clock in the afternoon Neville comes through the kitchen door with a pail of parsnips and carrots, and says abruptly, “Fog tonight.”

Draco had only come to the kitchens to steal a biscuit but he pauses by the door. Hermione — taking Mrs Weasley’s orders for the groceries — looks up from her notebook with wide eyes. “Are you sure?”

“I can feel it. Air’s getting damp.”

“But — it’s not come up for _ages_. The last time was when...” Hermione trails off and glances at Draco.

“What?” he asks.

“When _you_ arrived,” Neville says, swapping a look with Hermione.

Mrs Weasley brushes her floury hands on her apron. “I wonder what’s called it this time.”

“Something’s changed. It notices things like that.” Neville dumps the pail onto the floor.

The door to the hallway opens, making them all jump, and Ron and Harry step through, chatting cheerily to each other. They stop when they notice everyone’s expressions.

“God, what’s happened this time?” Ron asks, going to the sink and washing the dirt from his hands. 

Hermione and Neville swap another look. “Fog’s coming up,” Neville says at last.

“It’s not been up here in ages. Something’s changed,” Hermione adds.

“Ginny and Luna are visiting next month,” Mrs Weasley says. 

Hermione shakes her head. “Coincidence, I’m sure. The fog didn’t come up last time.”

Draco watches them silently. It’s like they’ve forgotten he’s there, the way they’re all speaking so openly, and he’s afraid they’ll suddenly remember him and start speaking in little asides and vague statements. 

Ron’s still washing his hands, his back to the room, and then he says without turning around, “What do you think, Harry?”

Everyone turns to look at Harry. He frowns at them. “I don’t know. I can’t think of any — ”

“Last night,” Ron says a little loudly over the running tap. “Anything change?”

“What? No, nothing. I — ”

“Didn’t stay the night at the castle?”

Mrs Weasley looks around at Harry, her eyebrows raised. Hermione and Neville, on the other hand, look appalled.

“I… well, yes,” Harry says defiantly. “I had a bad feeling and wanted to stay, so I did.”

“Harry,” Hermione says, anger running through her voice like a razor, “a word, please?”

“What, right now?”

“Yes.”

Harry looks around the kitchen, then says, “Er, all right,” and follows Hermione from the kitchen. Draco pauses, then moves to go after them. Neville steps forward, opening his mouth, but Ron holds out an arm, blocking him.

“Let him go,” he mutters.

Neville hovers anxiously “But Hermione said — for his own good, we — ”

“Keeping secrets isn’t protecting him any more, Nev.”

Draco looks at Ron, then turns away and leaves.

* * *

He finds them easily enough. The dining room door is ajar, and he can hear Hermione’s angry voice. But she’s careful to keep her tone low, and after a moment he hears footsteps crossing the room and the door is pushed shut, the solid oak silencing the voices within. 

Draco frowns at the door, pauses, then moves along the hallway. Ahead is the foyer, opening into a light and airy space, divided by the dramatic staircase of white and red marble. The parlour and cloak room are nearby. 

Draco considers his options, then ducks into the cloak room. It’s small and dark and musty, and he feels his way along the shelves and wall-pegs until he finds an uneven wall panel, and presses it.

It springs open, and Draco has to crouch through the tiny doorway. He hates small, dark spaces, and he forces himself to focus on anything else rather than the feeling of the walls touching his shoulders and the ceiling brushing the top of his head. He squeezes along the narrow passageway, turns a very cramped corner, and stops when he hears the voices. He’s near the dining room now. He can hear someone pacing, and furniture creaking as someone else sits down.

“...should know _better,_ Harry! You _know_ this place — ”

“I don’t _._ I hardly remember the time I spent here. Anyway, I was just a kid.”

“Oh, really? You practically lived here for a whole summer and remember _nothing_ of it?”

Harry’s silent for a long time. Then he says, “I think I chose to forget. I was eleven, Hermione.”

There’s another long silence. Then Hermione sighs. Another creak of a chair. “You were away for so long, Harry. You were _happy_ in England. Fifteen _years._ Of… of making new friends, and writing letters to us, telling me and Ron all about your adventures… you bought that little house in Devonshire, you got that apprenticeship you wanted. You were _happy_. Weren’t you?”

There’s a long pause. Draco listens intently, waiting for Harry’s answer.

“Mostly,” Harry says at last. 

“Then _why?_ Why’d you come back _here?_ Why did you show up suddenly, begging for a job? After fifteen _years_.”

Another long pause. Then, to Draco’s surprise, Harry laughs low and wry. “You know what I told Draco yesterday? ‘When a haunted room is calling you, it’s best not to answer.’ God, I’m so _stupid,_ aren’t I?”

“It’s not too late. You can leave. Go home.”

“I can’t.”

“ _Please._ It called you here, the same way it called Draco. Just leave.”

“You know I can’t. Hermione, I _can’t_ — don’t look at me like that, you know — ”

“This castle _always_ gets what it wants. I’m frightened, Harry. For both of you.”

“I can’t just go home, it’s not that simple, you _know_ it’s not — when it calls, it _calls_ — ”

“I keep having terrible dreams,” Hermione says, and her voice sounds all funny, and Draco realises with horror that she’s crying. It’s like Harry looking frightened. It’s not supposed to happen. Harry is always stupidly brave, and Hermione reassuringly steadfast. “These dreams, and we find you, Harry, we find you by the river — ” 

She breaks off. 

Draco listens, but for a long time there’s nothing but silence.

In the end, he leaves, silently stealing down the dusty passageway and opening with difficulty the wood-panel. He’s relieved when he’s finally able to half-crawl into the cloak room, and breathe in a lungful of cool, somewhat fresh air. Then he straightens up, and Dumbledore pushes him hard, sending him tumbling backwards, away through time itself. 

* * *

Draco comes to a rest at the foot of the stairs. He straightens up, covered in dust and cobwebs from the passageway, the air of the twenty-first century still lingering in his lungs, and takes a step forward. A maid passes by, whispering to a footman.

“... lost sight of him, just vanished around the corner...”

“Does she know?”

“Goodness, no. Not yet. We’ll find him soon enough and she need never know.”

Draco races through them, bolting to the foyer and rushing through the open doors where two gardeners are scanning the grounds and having a muttered conversation. 

“... says he ran ahead, like usual...”

He knows this time. He _knows_ where Scorpius is. Past the stone cairn where, one day, the boat-shed will be built. Around the tall reeds. Into the woods beyond, where the earth is soft and damp, to the far side of the lake hidden in damp reeds and willow trees. Over the fallen tree, around the brambles...

“Scorpius!”

It’s useless, he knows Scorpius can’t hear him, but he calls anyway.

“ _Scorpius_!”

There he is, balanced precariously on the rain-soft banks of one of the creeks that feeds the lake. Watching his little boat. Draco can’t risk startling him; he has to wait. Scorpius edges farther down the bank. Did Dumbledore send Draco back too late? 

The paper boat bobs cheerfully down the creek, drifting this way and that. Scorpius watches it with bright, curious eyes. He reaches out, teetering on the very edge of the muddy and precarious bank, and manages to retrieve it from the brambles. He leans forward, and for a moment it seems that he’ll suddenly slip and plunge into the rushing creek.

But he doesn’t. He straightens up, climbs carefully up the bank, and looks around.

The lake. Ahead, through the trees.

_Now._

Draco rushes forward, having to fight against the instinct to avoid collision, and he passes through Scorpius like a ghost.

Scorpius may have slightly sensed Draco grabbing his arm last time, but this time, he gives a great shiver and lets out a squeak of surprise. He looks around, a frightened expression creeping over his small, round face. 

Draco does it again.

And again.

Scorpius’s bottom lip begins to quiver. Whatever the sensation is, he hates it. He clutches his boat to his chest, the paper crumpling between his little hands. 

Draco rushes through him again.

Scorpius opens his mouth and lets out a great wail. “Mama! _Mama!”_

A voice calls out in the distance. “I hear him! Scorpius! _Scorpius!_ We’re all looking for you!”

Scorpius backs away from the spot where Draco stands, eyes wide, looking tearful. “Mama! I saw a ghost! _Mama!”_

The voices are getting distant, and for a terrible moment Draco thinks the searchers are moving away. But then the light is shifting, changing, and Scorpius is fading from sight. Draco reaches out a hand to him; it dissolves like smoke, blowing away on the hollow autumn winds.

He’s tired. Everything aches. He’s laying on his back now, feeling cold mud seep through his clothes.

He stares up at the white sky for a long time, then gets to his feet and drags himself back to the castle, where he mumbles to a passing Ron that he’s feeling unwell and mightn’t have lunch.

Then he sleeps like the dead.

* * *

When Draco wakes, the afternoon sunlight is slanting through his windows. He goes downstairs, to the front parlour, where he finds Ron and Harry. Work tools are scattered on the floor; evidently they were fixing a broken window latch. But they appear to have abandoned their task. Ron is standing silently, gazing at Scorpius’s portrait, and Harry stands just behind him, his expression indecipherable.

“What is it?” Draco asks, and Ron glances at him.

“Hm? Oh, nothing, Mr Malfoy. Just...something feels different about this room.”

Harry meets Draco’s gaze and says nothing.

Draco crosses the room and stands next to Ron, following his gaze.

The portrait looks the same, he thinks. Little Scorpius, standing by the chair, a beagle asleep at his feet. But then Draco drops his gaze to the plaque below.

_Scorpius Malfoy, 1824-1891._

“Where’s that book?” Harry asks suddenly. “That stupid little book Lucius carried around like a bible. The noble Malfoy line, or whatever he obsessed over.”

Draco hurries over to the little bookshelf and pulls out a copy of _The Bloodlines of the Malfoy Family_ , and flips through the pages. The Wick Line, the Elphin Line… the Kinbrace Line. He follows the faded names and dates. “Scorpius Malfoy. Born eighteen-twenty-four, christened eighteen-twenty-five. There’s a little paragraph about him. He was a scholar. Travelled Europe to study philosophy and the arts. Spent time in Switzerland and Italy. There’s a copy of his will here.”

Ron peers over his shoulder. “What’s it written in? Scottish Gaelic? Here, I can read it.”

“No, it’s Latin.” Draco traces the words. “A scholar indeed. I don’t think he ever married,” he adds, trying to recall his childhood Latin lessons and translate the words. “Left his estate to his cousins. He died in London, aged sixty-seven. Still learning and travelling. His aunt made arrangements for his body to be sent home. Here, to Agsworth Castle. To be buried with his parents.”

He looks up. Ron is frowning down at the book.

“I don’t get it,” Ron says. “Everything’s the same, but...I just feel like something’s _changed_.”

Harry just stands there, a little crease in his brow, not speaking. After a long moment, he finally looks up and catches Draco’s eye.

“I’d better go,” he says at last. “Clement will be missing his dinner by now.”

He turns and leaves. Ron stares after him, then exhales and shakes his head.

“Must be imagining things,” Ron says as Hermione arrives with her ledger. “Well. Still feeling crook, Mr Malfoy? I’ll get Mum to send up some soup.”

“Thank you.”

“No worries, mate.”

Hermione elbows Ron.

“What?” he asks, then says dutifully, “Oh. Right. You’re welcome, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco suddenly regrets all the terse corrections to _Mr Malfoy._ He finds himself wishing they _did_ just call him Draco. It had seemed an important mark of respect when he first arrived. Trying to assert his authority. Now it seems silly. Ron was right to mock it, he thinks with a flash of sadness. A petulant boy trying to order the servants around, pretending to be his own father. But Draco will never be Mr Malfoy. He can insist on titles all he wants. It’s meaningless. He will never replace his father.

But Draco’s always been too stubborn for his own good.

So he merely says, “Of course,” and leaves.

* * *

Later in the afternoon, Draco goes down to the little cemetery at the edge of the property. It’s a very long walk across the fields, over a gentle hill, and past a duck-pond. In the shade of tall spruce trees, the gravestones line the grass. 

Someone is already there. Harry is crouched beside a sandstone grave, pulling out weeds, but he pauses when he sees Draco.

“Just doing some maintenance.”

“I see.”

“Over there,” Harry says, pointing to a corner. 

“What?”

“Scorpius’s grave is over there.”

Draco stands for a moment, then says, “Oh? I’d only come by to visit a relative’s grave.”

“Which relative?”

Draco opens his mouth. His mother was buried near her family home in Gloucestershire, as per her dying request; Lucius had foregone tradition and requested to be buried alongside his late wife, instead of the Agsworth family cemetery. Aunt Bellatrix had been cremated, though Draco assumed that was from sheer fear of her somehow managing to return from the dead.

He closes his mouth again.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Scorpius’s grave is over there.”

Draco gives him a look and goes over to the corner. Scorpius and his parents are buried beneath the same single headstone, a column of sandstone engraved with their names. He reaches out and touches the engraving. _And their beloved son, Scorpius H. Malfoy, 1824-1891. Sleep on now, and take your rest._

“I _swear_ it used to be a little headstone,” Harry says, “with a carved stone angel set upon it. Different bible verse, too. Used to say, _‘Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven’._ I remember it well.”

Draco says nothing.

“Did he take you back?”

Draco looks up. “What?”

“Did he take you back? Whoever it was. When you were shouting in the fields. Take me back, you said.”

“I remember.”

“And did he?”

Draco looks down at the engraving again. Sixty-seven years upon this earth, he thinks. It doesn’t feel like much. He only gave Scorpius an extra sixty-three years. In the grand scheme of things, of stones and mountains and the bones of all these Malfoys buried here, sixty-three years is nothing. A drop in the ocean of time. Yet Scorpius travelled, and saw new worlds, and learned new things, and he knew the strength of his body as a youth and the ache of it as an old man. 

“Yes,” Draco says. “He did.”

He waits for questions. Harry’s always too curious like that, poking and prodding, unable to keep himself still.

But he walks over to Draco, and they both stand before the grave, and if only for a moment, Harry is still.

* * *

That evening, Draco idly plays the piano again after dinner, but the old songs don’t feel right. _Lavender’s Blue_ and _Daisy Bell_ give him an uneasy feeling, and he doesn’t know why. He keeps thinking of the Sapphire Suite too, which makes little sense.

“Is there a piano in the Sapphire Suite?” he asks Ron, who’s poking about with the window sash and getting quite frustrated with it.

“Hm? Dunno. Avoid it.”

“No, you don’t. It’s never dusty, and the carpets are always freshly vacuumed.”

“Yeah, I make Hermione do it. That room… gives people bad dreams. Even when you’re awake.”

Draco can’t imagine Hermione being made to do anything, especially someone else’s chores. “And she’s all right with that arrangement, is she?”

“Yep. Because _I_ do the Amber Suite.” Ron gives the window sash another yank, then glares at it. “Every time. Like clockwork. Soon as autumn settles in, the damn thing gets damp and won’t open. Need to replace the wood.”

“What’s wrong with the Amber Suite?”

“Well, Hermione’s a bit of a reader. Can’t resist a book.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.” Ron cups his hands around his mouth and hollers. “ _Harry!_ In the drawing room!”

Draco frowns at him, turns the page of a music book, and decides to learn a new song. Something besides his mother’s folk songs, which now this damned castle seems to have tainted. He peers at the first bar, looks down at the piano, and presses a key, then peers at the next note. His mother was right. He should have kept up with his practice.

When _did_ she say that, actually? He always thought, privately, that it disappointed her, but he’s certain she never once said anything...

Harry clatters into the room, holding a mouse trap. “What?”

Ron taps the window. “Help me measure this. I’ll order a new sash for it. Sick of it.”

Harry goes over to the window. Draco looks at the next bar, haltingly playing the notes. The music clunks on, slow and awkward and riddled with mistakes. 

“...Yeah, hold the tape measure still...”

“...smells damp. Probably got rot.”

“...s’what I thought, time for a replacement...” 

Draco plays on. After a moment, he’s aware of Harry humming along to the music, and he realises he’s playing that melancholic song, sad and lovely and entirely too flawless considering that a few minutes ago, Draco was peering at a page from _Children’s Favourite Nursery Rhymes_ and stumbling over the notes. 

“Ooh, my father loved that song,” Mrs Weasley says cheerily, coming into the room with a tea service. “Oh, don’t stop, dear. Keep playing. You play it beautifully.”

“What song?” Harry demands, sticking his head up from beneath the window sill. 

“Oh, how does it go again...? _Little did my mother think, when she first cradled me…”_

Draco stops playing abruptly, lifting his hands from the keys. Mrs Weasley looks disappointed.

“Been _years_ since I heard it. Here’s your tea, dear. Scone?”

“Thank you.”

Ron looks up keenly. “Oh, are there scones?”

Mrs Weasley sniffs. “You’re like a seagull, Ronald Weasley. Always looking for a spare chip.”

“So… _are_ there scones, or — ”

“Go to the kitchen. _After_ you’ve finished your work. And why is Harry still here? He’s supposed to finish at three.”

“Yeah, I’ll talk to Hermione about the overtime,” Ron says. “The autumn rains have brought a few extra jobs with them, and it’s — ”

“Extra jobs or not, you know the rules. The fog’s coming in early, and — ”

“What? What’s the time?” Ron jumps to his feet, wide-eyed. 

“Only four —”

“What? _Why_ didn’t anyone bloody _say_ anything — Harry, you’ve got to go, forget about the window — where’s the others?”

“Calm down. There’s still plenty of time,” Mrs Weasley says soothingly.

“You know what Hermione says. Better safe than sorry. Harry, you can go now. When are you finishing, Mum?”

“After supper, of course. I’ll wash the dishes and finish at eight.” Mrs Weasley waves a hand at Ron. “I know the rules. I’ll stay at the caretaker’s lodge tonight, with you and Hermione.”

“Why?” Draco demands, and Ron glances at him as though he forgot he was there.

“Mum’s got poor eyesight,” he says blandly. “Can’t be driving home in the fog.”

“Well, she can leave now if she’d like. Before nightfall.”

Draco had only said it to be polite, but it seems to have the opposite effect. Mrs Weasley draws herself up.

“And let you starve?” she snaps.

“Yeah, he’s practically wasting away,” Ron says, rolling his eyes. “Listen, Mum — ”

“I’m perfectly capable of making myself a sandwich,” Draco says, which only seems to cause further suffering.

“A _sandwich?_ For _dinner?_ A _sandwich!_ You’ll wake up hungry at midnight, mark my words, and what _then?_ A lump of cheese? Some stale bread?”

“I don’t think,” Ron says, “you’ve ever let bread go stale in your kitchen, Mum.”

“That’s _not_ the point — ”

“Look, he said it himself, you can go home early. Take the night off. Wouldn’t want you to drive through the _fog_ ,” Ron says pointedly. 

Mrs Weasley subsides a bit. “Well,” she says. “Let me make sure the pantry’s well stocked.”

“It _is,_ you know Hermione makes sure of that. She keeps entire spreadsheets about the buttery. I think Draco will get through the night.”

“That last bit sounds a little ominous, to be perfectly honest,” Draco says. 

“Maybe I should stay,” Harry adds. “Just to make sure — ”

Ron gives him a look. Hermione’s normally the one who gives looks, and Draco hadn’t thought Ron capable of mustering one. But he does it now, and it’s quite unsettling. Even Mrs Weasley looks taken aback.

“One’s fun,” Ron says. “Two’s trouble. You’re not staying. _Nobody’s_ staying.”

“Oh, good,” Draco says. “Just me, then. Alone. With the fog that everyone seems to be terrified about. I’m very reassured right now.”

“Great,” Ron says. “Glad you’re feeling reassured. Well, that’s settled. Harry, you can give Mum a lift home. Hermione and me and Nev will leave together at five.”

“Three’s a crowd,” Draco says abruptly. 

Ron glances at him, then clears his throat. “Harry. Go take Mum home.”

Harry doesn’t move for a moment. He looks at Draco, then away, and takes a set of car keys from his pocket. “Right. Well, I’ll… see you tomorrow, Draco.”

Draco nods. Harry stands there a moment longer, then leaves, Mrs Weasley following him. Ron waits until their footsteps fade, then says, “Don’t let Harry do anything brave. Or stupid.”

“Same thing, when it comes to Harry.”

Ron pauses. “Sometimes,” he says, “it seems like you know him well.”

Draco shuts the piano lid with a snap, making Ron jump. “I don’t.”

Ron turns away and fusses about the window-frame. Draco watches him, his hands in his lap.

“Just making sure it’s closed,” Ron says, giving the sash a final push.

“Wouldn’t want anything to get inside.”

Ron doesn’t reply. 

* * *

Draco has a sandwich for dinner and survives despite Mrs Weasley’s fears. He whiles away some time in the Ruby Suite, reading books. They’re children’s books — adventure novels and stories of pirates and dragons and kings. There’s a very scuffed and worn checkers game on the shelf. He wonders if a child once played in this room. 

The books all seem familiar. He opens them one after another, reading the first few lines, and finds that he always knows how each one ends. He moves along the bookshelf, reading the first page and then the last, growing increasingly bewildered at his ability to magically know each ending. As he reaches for the next book, he stumbles forward as though someone pushed him hard. He glances over his shoulder and finds nobody there.

“You’re not going to pick the hedgehog story again, are you?”

Draco jumps, startled. There's a little boy in front of him, wide-eyed, his spectacles slipping down his nose, his hair a wild tangle. 

“What?”

“The hedgehog,” the boy says. "Come on, Draco. You’ve got all these stories about dragons and treasure maps and royalty, and you _always_ pick that silly book about the hedgehog that gets lost in the brambles.”

Draco looks down at the book in his hand, then up at the boy again. The similarity is undeniable, and now he’s learned his lesson. It’s not impossible, because this castle has taught him _nothing_ is impossible. “Harry,” he says, his voice tinged with something bordering on defeat. 

“Yeah?” the boy asks.

“Nothing. I was just… saying your name.”

Harry crinkles his nose, evidently amused by Draco’s whimsy. “Well. Pick another book. I’m sick of the hedgehog. Anyway, it’s a little kid book.”

“You _are_ a little kid.”

Harry looks at him as though Draco just slapped him. “I’m _eleven_ ,” he says with outrage. “Same age as _you_. In fact, you’re only a month older than me. So _there._ I’m _not_ a little kid.”

Draco stands up and goes to the window. His nose barely reaches the sash; he stands on his tip-toes. Outside, the sun is setting. If this is the past, this _must_ have happened. And yet...

“I don’t remember this,” he mutters to himself.

“What?”

He turns around. Harry’s moved now; he’s perched on the edge of the bed, looking quizzically at Draco. 

“Nothing. I just… why are you here?”

Harry looks hurt. “I’ll go, then,” he says. “If you’ve changed your mind. I’ll call my aunt and she’ll come and pick me up.”

“No, I meant… why are you at the castle?”

Harry eyes him. “You’re acting funny again,” he says, an accusing note in his voice. “I hate it when you get like this.”

“Like what?”

“Acting like you’re someone else. Stop it. It’s not funny, Draco.”

“No,” Draco says in agreement. “It’s not.”

Harry seems mollified by that. He hops off the bed and goes to the bookshelves, dragging out the game of checkers. “Let’s play this instead. I’m not going to listen to the hedgehog story again.”

There’s a knock at the door and Draco looks up as an unfamiliar woman comes into the room. “Dinner will be served at six,” she announces, then adds a touch disapprovingly, “I hope you boys aren’t making a mess in here.”

“No, Mrs McGonagall,” Harry says politely. She eyes him for a moment, then nods and leaves. Harry waits, then leans forward and whispers to Draco, “She’s a bit scary. _Different_ scary to your dad, though. She’s sort of… stern. Nice sometimes. But stern.”

“My father is scary?” Draco asks, a little alarmed. Did Lucius bully Harry? He knows his father was a snob, and often threatened those who trespassed on the lands, even children. 

Harry frowns at him. “Yeah. You said so yourself. You said he’s mean and you don’t like him.”

Draco can’t remember _ever_ telling anybody that. As a child, he’d looked up to Lucius and tried his best to win his approval. Deep down, he’d wished for a different father. A kinder father. But he knew it wasn’t right to feel that way about his own parent, so he’d never said it aloud.

“I don’t think I said that.”

“You _did._ You said you wished for another dad.” Harry looks away, pushing his over-sized spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose. “But you said it was a secret. So I guess we shouldn’t talk about it. Even if it’s just us.”

Draco doesn’t say anything.

“It’s all right,” Harry says earnestly after a moment. “Sometimes I wish for a different aunt and uncle. They’re mean, too. I know I should be grateful they took me in, and everything, but sometimes I think...” He trails off. “I want a birthday party,” he says suddenly. “I’ve read about them in books. And my cousin gets one _every_ year. So sometimes I think… I think it would be nice. To have a birthday party. I could have a cake. It wouldn’t need to be much. And presents. Just one or two,” he adds quickly, as though worried Draco will accuse him of being greedy. “And people get to blow out the candles and make a wish, you know.”

“I know,” Draco says quietly.

“Imagine getting a whole wish to yourself. What would you wish for?”

There’s a sound in the distance. Footsteps. Draco straightens up, turning his head.

“Draco?”

The footsteps are getting closer. Draco glances at Harry, who’s looking at him expectantly. Draco frowns and looks closer at him; Harry seems to be darkening, fading into the long shadows cast by sunset.

“Draco,” Harry says. 

Draco turns around. Harry is standing in the doorway, car keys held in one hand. The room is cold and dark; night has nearly fallen. 

“You all right?” Harry asks. “Standing here in the dark...”

“I was just talking to...” Draco trails off. “What are you doing here?”

Harry blushes a bit, but when he speaks, he does so with a hint of determination in his voice. “I had that bad feeling again. So I came back.”

“Idiot,” Draco says, and Harry blinks in surprise. “What was it you told me? When it calls, it’s best not to answer.”

“It wasn’t a call. It was a bad feeling. And — ”

“It was a call,” Draco says firmly. 

“It _wasn’t_.” Harry scowls at him. “I was just… I was… well, like you said. Not very reassuring, is it? All this odd talk about the fog, and you’re alone here.”

“One’s fun. Two’s trouble.”

“What’s that even mean?”

Draco frowns at him. “I was hoping you’d tell me. Everyone seems to know about this castle except _me,_ the rightful owner.”

Harry pauses, then steps into the room. He perches on the edge of the bed, on the exact same spot his younger self had once sat. “They don’t tell me either. It’s the sort of thing you have to work out by yourself, I think. And it’s… different for people. Some of the castle’s… guests only appear to certain people.” He lowers his voice, then adds, “Like the old man you mention. Hermione’s never seen _him_ , and she knows _all_ of them.”

“Been investigating, have you?” Draco rolls his eyes. “Of course you have. Can never just leave things alone, can you?”

“No,” Harry says shamelessly. “Which is why I’m staying tonight. You can argue about it all you want, but I really do have a bad feeling. I’ll take the Ruby Suite again, for — ”

“ — old time’s sake.”

Harry closes his mouth. Draco glances back out the window, but the sun has truly set. There’s only darkness. He sees his own reflection looking back at him, a pale smudge in the dark glass. He breathes out, watching his condensation fog the window.

“Well,” he says. “Let’s settle in, then. There’s chess in the parlour, if you’d like to pass the time. Or we can play checkers.”

He watches the reflection closely. Behind him, Harry starts, and turns to Draco. Then he pauses and turns his face away again.

“Chess is fine,” Harry says.

Draco turns around and studies him for a moment, but he says nothing.

 _I think I chose to forget_ , he remembers Harry telling Hermione.

And Draco is beginning to understand that very well.

* * *

They play chess. Harry wins both games, much to Draco’s annoyance; it’s not skill nor patience on Harry’s part, merely a few bold risks that paid off. The parlour seems downright pleasant now. The air is no longer musty nor damp, but smells of the fresh flowers placed there by Ron. It’s a bouquet of day-lilies, a bright orange that brings a dramatic departure from the usual white funeral flowers. Draco looks at the portrait of Scorpius in his grey coat, the beagle by his side. The portrait of the Mother is the same as it was that morning, the same it’s been since Draco went back and saved Scorpius. She sits with her back to the view over the lake, facing the viewer instead and smiling faintly, a sprig of lavender in her lap.

“Shall we check the windows?” Harry asks after they’ve raided the kitchens for a late supper of buttered crumpets and hot tea. “You can take the first floor, I’ll take the second.”

Draco is amused. The cheerful day-lilies and pleasant parlour — followed by a midnight raid on the kitchens — has lightened the mood and given the entire night an atmosphere of boyhood adventure, as though they’re both little children again, staying up past bedtime and sneaking about. “Harry Potter, patron saint of complete idiots,” he says. “Suggesting we split up to search the haunted castle. How did you even make it this far?”

Harry laughs. “You’ve got a point, although you needn’t be so rude about it. We’ll go together, then.”

“We’ll check the cellars first.”

“ _Now_ who’s the idiot? There’s no windows down there.”

“No, but there’s wine and my late father’s whiskey collection.”

Harry opens and closes his mouth, looking as though he’s caught between responsibility and temptation.

“He’s got a fifty-year, oak-aged Dalmore,” Draco says helpfully.

“What? We’re not drinking _that!_ You’ve got to save it for a special occasion.”

“My father was saving it for a special occasion too.”

Harry considers that, then says, “All right. Just a little tipple.”

They go to the cellar and emerge, quite merrily, about half an hour later, with Harry carrying a glass of sweet whiskey and Draco a glass of a full-bodied red wine.

“I think,” Harry says, “That collectively, all the whiskeys I sampled are probably worth the same amount of money as my entire house.”

“Probably,” Draco agrees, peering into a dark and chilly room. “What’s this?”

“The buttery, you numpty. It’s got a door, but it was boarded up decades ago. There’s the root cellar next to it. The larder over there. Keep going, and there’s the first window. So! Is it closed?”

Draco looks at the windows lining the kitchen wall, looking out into the little courtyard garden where Neville grows the herbs and vegetables often collected for Mrs Weasley’s recipes. “Yes.”

“Door’s locked,” Harry announces, fumbling with the latch on the kitchen door leading to the courtyard, and sloshing his drink in the process.

“Careful! If Mrs Weasley smells alcohol in here tomorrow, I’m going to have to answer a _lot_ of questions!”

Harry laughs at him. “Lord of the castle, frightened of the cook.”

“You’ve had too much to drink,” Draco says crossly. “You’re taking liberties.”

“Hang on, you invite me to help myself to your wine cellar, then tell me _I’m_ taking liberties?”

Draco puts his nose in the air. Harry only laughs more. 

“Nice to know you still do that,” he says, tilting his head back and imitating Draco’s snooty expression. “Nothing changes, I suppose.”

“Right. Kitchen’s done. Dining room next.” Draco opens the door leading to the hallway. 

They move through the dining room and the narrow cloak room. The foyer, the parlour and then the Great Hall, all the while speaking lightly and telling the occasional joke. It really is like a party, a fun little game, drinking from their glasses and saying stupid things. They go up the great marble staircase and to the first-floor rooms, and even the Sapphire Suite doesn’t seem the least bit ominous, not with Harry there being too tipsy and loud, tripping over his own feet. 

“There’s a secret passageway in here somewhere,” Harry says, pressing on the walls. Draco sprawls over the bed, spilling a bit of his drink on the midnight-blue covers, and laughs at him.

“Idiot,” he says indulgently. “Wish I could take a picture of you, wandering about pressing the walls like they’re magic buttons.”

“There _is_ a passageway!” Harry protests. “I remember it.”

“Probably thinking of the cloakroom one.”

“I’m _not_.”

“Look, I see it! Go over there.”

“Over here?” Harry asks.

“Yeah, that’s it. Bit more to the right… bit more… there, try that.”

Harry gives him a long look. “This is the doorway, Draco. Think you’re so funny, don’t you?”

Draco laughs, probably too loudly, but he doesn’t feel particularly self-conscious about it. Had too much wine now, he thinks, holding up his empty glass. He gets to his feet unsteadily, half-sliding from the bed. “One more room,” he announces. “Then we have to go back to the kitchens. Someone’s stolen my wine.”

“The ghost,” Harry says, smiling. “The wine ghost.”

They laugh and talk and stumble through the doorway, along the long dark hallway, and into Draco’s room. The light of the lamp reflects from the dark green walls, making Draco feel as though he’s underwater. “Oh, look,” he says, “we found one!”

“Hm?”

“The window. Weren’t we looking for a window?” Draco touches a hand to the window sash. It’s pulled wide open, letting in the cold night air. 

“Well, now we’ve found one.” Harry gestures carelessly, spilling whiskey on the rug. “Do you think there’s a secret passageway in _this_ room?”

“I haven’t found one yet.”

“Bet you haven’t even looked. No sense of adventure,” Harry teases. 

“No, no. You know what we _should_ do?” Draco stumbles slightly and catches himself on Harry’s arm. “Let’s go to the river.”

“All right.” Harry holds his cup up. “To the cellar first, I think.”

“No, let’s go now. Before they catch us. _Coisich, a rùin_.”

“ _Feitheamh_ ,” Harry murmurs distractedly. “There’s no rush. The others have gone.”

Draco makes an annoyed noise at him; Harry laughs. They go downstairs, to the cellar, deep into the long gloomy undercroft. The bottles gleam in the dark. Draco touches the smooth glass, and hums to himself. _Little did my mother think, when she first cradled me, that I would turn a roving boy..._

Harry refills their cups, and does so carelessly. The red wine splashes over the earthen floor, soaking dark into the dirt. Draco lifts his cup; Harry laughs and returns the toast. 

... _And die upon the gallers tree._

They go to the kitchen and open the courtyard door, leaving it open behind them as they step into the fog together.


	6. The Illusionist

Draco wakes.

He stares up at the sky. The stars glitter like crushed glass. The moon is waxing, half-dipped in shadow. In the distance, buried somewhere in the horizon, there’s a thin line of gold.

Dawn is coming.

He shivers and sits up, feeling something hard against his back. A tree, he supposes. He gazes down at his hands. They’re covered in mud. His clothes are soaked. He’s barefoot, with soil and dead leaves plastered to the soles of his feet. His lips feel chapped and bitten with cold. He can see shadows marking the grass around him. Gravestones, he thinks dazedly, and he looks behind him. He’s leaning against a tall column of sandstone.

_Sleep on now, and take your rest._

A willow-warbler sings out, greeting the dawn. Draco glances at the treelike.

There are two people watching him. They stand between him and the dark woods ringing the cemetery. Beyond the wizened oaks and brambles, he can hear the rush of the dark river.

He knows the woman, blue-eyed and brunette. The Mother. It takes him a moment longer to recognise the man. It’s Scorpius. Grown old, as he should be. 

He looks at them. They meet his gaze, then the Mother curtsies, and Scorpius bows low.

After a moment, as the first light of dawn reaches across the land, they both slowly fade from sight. 

_Wait,_ Draco tries to say, but he finds his mouth dry and throat raw as though he’s been crying all night. He reaches out, but they’re gone, and he somehow knows they won’t be returning again. They have repaid his favour.

There’s the sound of someone stirring nearby. A dark figure rises from the neighbouring grave.

“Harry,” Draco mouths, then wets his lips and tries again. “Harry. _Harry!”_

“I’m all right,” Harry says, sounding groggy. “What… where are we?”

“The cemetery.”

Harry falls silent. After a moment, he says abruptly, “Let’s go home.”

They make their way slowly to the castle. Every one of Draco’s muscles aches, as though he spent the night running fast. He breathes in the icy air, feeling the burn of it in his throat, and pushes his way through the dewy grass. It’s a miracle they didn’t both die of hypothermia, he thinks in disbelief. Silver frost laces the grass.

A flock of birds rises in the distance. Draco stumbles onwards, crushing the grass underfoot. Broken stalks and small rocks bite the soles of his feet. His shirt is soaked and hangs from him like a storm-lashed sail. His trousers are dark with morning dew. Overhead, a thin ray of light struggles through an overcast dawn.

They walk back to the castle in subdued silence. At the castle, they find a crystal tumbler resting on the gate-post by the courtyard garden, and a wineglass placed neatly on the ground. The courtyard door is ajar. Harry picks up the glasses and stares blankly at them.

“I suppose we were drinking,” he says.

“I suppose so.”

“Must have gone for a walk.” Harry steps into the kitchen and hesitates, then sets the glasses down. “I...”

Draco waits. For the questions, and theories, and suggestions.

“I should go,” Harry says at last. He looks down at his muddy clothes and ragged clothing. “The others will be here soon. If Hermione knows I was here last night, she’ll be furious.”

“Take the day off.”

“I’ll be fine.” Harry takes a car key from the little hook by the kitchen doorway. Draco listens to his footsteps fade. There’s the distant rumble of a car engine, and then Draco is alone again.

He looks at the kitchen windows. They’re all open, and he closes each one. Hermione and Ron will be here any minute, ready to clean the hearths and start the fires for the day. 

Draco crosses the kitchen and steps into the hallway. There’s a chilly breeze coming from somewhere, he realises. The two windows in the foyer are open, sending an unwelcome draught down the hallway. He begins walking towards them, then pauses. There’s another breeze. To his left, the dining hall door is open, and beyond it, he can see the windows are open in that room too.

He closes them, and the foyer windows, and the parlour ones, and the Great Hall windows too.

All the windows of the castle, he soon realises, are open. 

Every single one.

* * *

He goes directly to his bedroom and sleeps deeply, and when he wakes, he can hear the castle going about its business. He can hear the distant whirr of the vacuum cleaner. Someone coming down the hallway. The light shines young through his bedroom window; it must be ten or eleven in the morning, if he had to guess. It seems so ordinary somehow that he thinks everything must be normal. It’s only the mud drying stiff on his clothes and the bits of grass and dirt on his skin that suggest otherwise.

He peels off his clothes and has a long shower, then dresses and goes downstairs. He passes by Ron, who’s replacing a light bulb, and Harry dusting the portrait frames. Both bid him a bland, “Morning,” and he glances at Harry but says nothing.

Hermione is talking to a man with a toolbelt in the drawing room, her ledger in one hand as always, a pencil tucked behind her ear. “...We’ve budgeted the costs, the replacement window frame should...oh, good morning, Draco.”

“Good morning,” he replies, and she turns back to her conversation.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, Mrs Weasley is humming to herself as she prepares scones and clotted cream.

“Good morning. Enjoy your lay-in?” she asks without looking up from a bowl of cream.

“Yes.”

“Nice for some, I suppose. Made your breakfast fresh and had to give it to the staff! The bacon was crispy just the way you like it, and the eggs collected from the henhouse this morning.” Mrs Weasley gives a disapproving sniff, then pauses. “Are you all right, dear? You look a little pale.”

“I’m all right.”

She frowns. “I’ll make you a nice strong coffee. Scones will be ready soon.”

“Thank you. I’ll be in the parlour.”

He leaves, going to the parlour. The portraits of the Mother and Scorpius are there as usual. Perhaps nothing has changed. The Mother sits by her window, holding her lavender sprig. Scorpius stands near the chair, the beagle by his side.

But Draco knows.

They’re gone.

“Oh, Draco, there you are.” Hermione clatters into the room, peering down at scraps of paper, then glances up at him. “Now, the carpenter and glazier both quoted — are you alright? You look — ” She stops, then fusses about the paper. “A bit upset,” she finishes with slight awkwardness. 

“I’m fine.”

Hermione follows his gaze to the portrait of Scorpius. “Well. I’ll come back later, perhaps, to authorise the costs of the...” She stops again, then looks around the room. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m perfectly — ”

“There’s something wrong with this room. Something _off_ ,” Hermione says, creeping her hand toward her hair to anxiously twist a curl around her finger. “Ron knows this room best, always put the flowers in for the Mother – _Ron!”_

Footsteps hurry down the hallway, and Ron pokes his head into the room. “What? What’s...” He trails off.

“Something’s wrong,” Hermione says. “Is it — ”

Ron shakes his head and then steps inside. He looks at the portraits, then around the room, and a great sorrow suddenly envelops his face. “They’re gone,” he says slowly.

“What?”

“They’re gone. Scorpius and his mother.”

“No. Nobody has _ever_ left this castle.”

“I can feel it,” Ron says firmly. “They’re gone. I don’t know why, but they’re gone.”

Hermione opens and closes her mouth, then looks at Draco. “Did something happen last night?” she asks. “You’d tell us, wouldn’t you, Draco? If something had happened? With – with the fog coming in...”

Draco hesitates, then says, “No. Nothing happened.”

Ron gazes up at the portrait of the Mother. “I think,” he says, “I’ll go to the cemetery. Pay my respects one last time.”

Hermione watches him leave, her hair still twisted around her finger. “Well,” she says after a moment with a forced casualness in her voice. “Those accounts won’t settle themselves. I’d better… I’d… I’ll go.”

She leaves, glancing over her shoulder and looking deeply unsettled before she closes the door, leaving Draco alone.

He stares at the vase on the sideboard. The bright day-lilies are getting a little old now, the leaves yellowing slightly, and some of the petals are browning around the edges. 

He’ll replace them, he thinks suddenly. 

Whether Scorpius and the Mother are gone or not.

* * *

The mood in the castle is subdued for the rest of the week. Ron mourns Scorpius and the Mother like old friends, and he helps Draco arrange the fresh flowers, and he polishes the frames of the portraits until they shine like gold in the sunlight.

“Of all of them,” Ron tells Draco, “It was the Mother I didn’t mind. She was just looking for peace, that’s all. I suppose she finally found it.”

Draco suddenly thinks of Mrs Weasley. “You said your brother died on the castle ground.”

“Fred.”

“Yes. Fred. Is he… do you ever see him, or...?”

Ron doesn’t laugh at the question. “Nah,” he says without looking up from the portrait frame as he polishes it. “I looked. Looked and looked. Don’t think I didn’t, because every day I looked. But… I s’ pose he just… moved on.”

“Oh.” After a beat, Draco adds, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I think it would’ve been worse if he stayed. It’s not good, you know? Spending hours in a castle talking to the dead. Which is probably what my mum would’ve ended up doing. And maybe Fred knew that, so he just… chose to leave.”

Long after Ron’s left the parlour, Draco sits and thinks.

Hours, he thinks. Hours and hours.

Talking to the dead.

* * *

Winter arrives the next week, frosting the lawns and sending Clement retreating to the hay-lined stables. Ron oversees a delivery of firewood; Draco watches from the Ruby Suite as Harry pushes wheelbarrows of logs into the woodshed. The chimneys are cleaned, the flues checked. Mrs Weasley begins making hearty stews. Neville drapes drop cloths over the herb garden, protecting it from frost. The cloth billows like white sails when a breeze springs up, and at night-time they look strange in the darkness. Small and white and fluttering.

The castle is preparing for hibernation, it seems. The boat-shed is locked. The orchards bear no fruit. In the distance, the fields become barren and the forest looks bleached of its colour. The white branches of the birches touch the rain-dark sky. The larch trees are all stripped bare. 

Ginny and Luna Lovegood arrive the same week. Hermione introduces them to Draco in the front parlour, where both Ginny and Luna contrast with the velvet chaises and gilded portrait-frames. Ginny wears jeans and a fleece jumper, while Luna wears a pair of overalls and slightly muddy galoshes, her white-blonde hair tucked into a half-hearted ponytail.

“Nice to meet you,” Ginny says, sticking out a calloused hand. She’s certainly a Weasley relative, with her red hair and freckled face. “I work in land management.”

Draco dutifully shakes her hand, not the least bit surprised she doesn’t try for an old-fashioned curtsy. He has the feeling Ginny would burst into laughter at the mere suggestion of it.

“Hello,” Luna says, smiling at him. “You’ve a lovely estate. It’s nice of you to share it with so many.”

“Luna specialises in wildlife conservation,” Ginny adds. “Or, as I like to tell people — she’s fauna, I’m flora. Well, shall we have a look?”

“Give me a moment, I’ll fetch my coat,” Draco says, and Ginny pauses, glances at Luna, and then Hermione.

“Oh, there’s no need to accompany us,” she says. “Your father never did, and — ”

“You’ll find Mr Malfoy does things very differently to his father,” Hermione says without batting an eye. “I think it’s a fine idea, Mr Malfoy, to accompany Ginny and Luna. They’ve a lot of knowledge about the estate.”

Draco thinks perhaps it’s time for Hermione to receive a raise.

* * *

Ginny and Luna seem to make an odd duo, Draco thinks. Ginny strides ahead, a notebook in one pocket with a stubby pencil tied to it, and every now and again she pauses to make notes. Luna wanders along, frequently stopping to peer into trees or poke about in piles of leaf litter.

“Here, Draco,” she says to him after spending ten minutes peering up into a tree. “Look, do you see it?”

He gazes up through the branches, spotting a small bird the colour of coffee. “A sparrow?”

Luna smiles at him. “A yellow-browed warbler. It’s a little hard to see the yellow from here.”

“Oh. Are they rare?”

“No,” Luna says. “I just like them.” She turns away, picking her way over fallen branches. “Seen much of the red deer?”

“Sometimes. In the fields near the castle.”

“Beautiful, aren’t they? These woods are full of life.”

“It doesn’t seem like it,” Draco says. He’d only said it politely, to keep up the small talk, but Luna pauses. 

“Oh, near the river, do you mean?” she asks placidly. “Yes. It gets very quiet in some places.”

Draco gives her a sideways look. “The river,” he says. “Do you know much about it?”

He waits. He waits for _It begins east, and ends up in Loch Badanloch,_ or _there’s good trout fishing by the Kinbrace bridge,_ or _It’s home to many different species of frogs and toads._

But Luna says none of that. 

“It’s cruel,” she says. “It’s a cruel river.”

Draco stops. Luna wanders onwards, stepping over branches and around large rocks, until she vanishes into the brambles and trees. 

In the distance, he can hear the rush of water, quiet yet relentless.

* * *

Back at the castle, Ginny and Luna sit in the parlour and fill out paperwork and sip from the cups of tea Mrs Weasley brought them. Mrs Weasley had looked at Ginny with great excitement when she saw her, and enveloped her in a hug.

“A relative, I assume?” Draco asks Ginny as Mrs Weasley bustles away.

“My mother. We’ll catch up afterwards. It’s been a while since I was in the area.” Ginny reaches for another file. “Well, you’ve kept the estate in fine form, but that’s to be expected when you have someone like Hermione. She watches those farmers like a hawk.”

“Farmers?”

Ginny gives him an odd look. “Yes. You lease some land to farmers, mostly on the northern border of the property. Some of them like to clear land they’re not supposed to. Had a problem a few years back with one of them illegally clearing marshland, where a protected species of duck nested. Before Hermione managed the castle’s business, of course.”

“Right,” Draco says, vaguely recalling Binns telling him about the castle’s finances. “Leasing land. And agistment too.”

“Yes, you’ve got some nice pastures to the west.” Ginny gives him another look. “I thought you would have known all this...?”

Draco gives her a polite, thin smile. “I try not to look into it too much.”

“What, the castle? Isn’t that sort of… your job? Mr Malfoy knew every inch of this place.”

“I don’t plan on staying long,” Draco says, though he feels that the more he repeats that, the less confident he sounds. “Seems a waste of time to look into things.”

Ginny signs the bottom of the form and puts it into a folder. “Nev said you had a fancy job in London. Seems funny to upend your whole life just to move here, to the middle of nowhere. Especially if it’s only for a little while.”

“It’s tradition to always have a blood relative in the castle,” Draco says stiffly. “So I _had_ to move here.”

“Didn’t want to sell?”

“It’s my ancestral home.”

Ginny shrugs. “Just seems funny, that’s all I’m saying. If it were me, I would’ve sold it. Big creepy castle handed to me? No thanks. Some traditions can be broken, you know. Right, Luna, have you finished your forms? I noticed the… Luna? _Luna.”_

Luna doesn’t answer her. She’s gazing up at the Mother. “It’s changed,” she murmurs.

“What?” Ginny asks impatiently. 

“It’s changed. She used to be looking out the window, with a reed in her hands. Looking at the lake.”

“No, it’s always been like that.”

“It hasn’t,” Luna says, still looking upon it. 

Ginny seems rather no-nonsense, and Draco waits for her to roll her eyes and explain it away. 

But she doesn’t.

“Come on, fill out your paperwork,” she says instead. “I don’t want to stay long. This place...”

Luna drops her gaze and gives Ginny a soft look. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry about Fred.”

Ginny and Ron’s brother, Draco suddenly remembers. 

Ginny looks away. “Never mind,” she says. “Come on, finish your report.”

Luna picks up her pen. Draco gazes up into the serene face of the Mother.

_It’s a cruel river._

* * *

The gardens are still growing despite the frosts. The castle stands strong as time itself, impervious to the merciless cold. Draco walks around the grounds each morning despite the brutal winter air, and one morning — sunlight actually managing to break through the heavy clouds – he happens upon Harry lounging on the ancient stone steps leading to the front doors. He’s peeling an apple and soaking up the very thin winter sunshine. Draco pauses by him, pulling his scarf free as he readies to enter the cosy foyer. 

“Haven’t you work to do?” Draco asks lightly.

Harry tilts his face to the sun. It illuminates the rise of his cheekbones, the straight line of his nose, the shadows of his eyelashes. “Nothing wrong with taking a rest.”

“I suppose so.”

“And what about _your_ work?”

Draco frowns at him. “What work?”

“Back in London. Last week, Ginny mentioned you said you might be returning to London soon. Said you didn’t intend to stay.”

“Well, if I _do_ leave, you’ll be the first to know. And _not_ Ginny Weasley.”

“Ah.” Harry throws his apple peel down the steps, much to the joy of Clement, who makes short work of it.

Draco opens his mouth. He feels like he should say something, yet he doesn’t know what.

In the end, he departs without another word, though he feels Harry’s gaze on his back.

That night, the fog comes rolling in.

* * *

Draco double-checks every door and window, despite the fact Hermione did it hours earlier. He goes to his room and closes the door, and he’s halfway through a very dull book about common garden pests when the phone rings, startling him enough to make his heart race. He sets the book down and pauses.

The ringing continues, echoing down the hallway. The castle is empty. Hermione, Ron, and Mrs Weasley have all long gone. Neville and Harry both left early. Harry had lingered and opened his mouth, then caught Ron’s watchful eye and said nothing, departing silently with Neville.

Draco sits up and stares across his room. The lamp casts a weak glow, steeping the room in long, dark shadows. He can hear the phone ringing and ringing, the sound beginning to hammer upon his skull. It’s annoying and piercing and just won’t _stop._ His heart tells him to hide and stay where he is, on his bed; his mind tells him off for such sentiment. Has the castle terrified him so much that he can’t take a late-night phone call? He shakes his head contemptuously and gets out of bed, going to his door and yanking it open.

The ringing stops.

Draco stays perfectly still, as if being hunted by a keen-eyed creature. After a long moment, he takes a step backward into his room, and he doesn’t know _how_ he knows, only that he can sense it, and he whips around to see the Clock-Winder standing in his room, cloaked in shadow.

“No,” Draco says, backing away. “No, no more of _that_ , I’m — ”

He breaks off as Dumbledore begins walking towards him with an outstretched hand; Draco turns and bolts away, racing along the gloomy hallway, and he grabs the handle of the first door he reaches, and tumbles into the silent and dark Sapphire Suite. He shuts the door as quietly as possible, letting it snick shut, then waits, his heart pounding. He closes his eyes, trying to count to ten to calm his heart. 

“Oh, darling. You came back.”

Draco opens his eyes. 

The room is no longer dark. It glows amber, lit by the cosy fireplace. A sickly-sweet reek hangs in the air. He turns around; his mother is peering into his face. Draco steps backwards and feels the door against his back. He fumbles for the handle and doesn’t find it, his fingers scrabbling against smooth wood.

“You aren’t happy to see me?” Narcissa turns her face to follow his movement, but her eyes don’t move. They begin to cloud slightly as the irises slip away, drifting slowly across the membranes of her eyes. 

“Please, let me go.” He presses against the door. “ _Please_.”

“You’re the one holding on, Draco.” Narcissa takes another step forward.

“Let me go!”

“If you’re going to spoil this — like you do with everything you touch — then you can go down to the cellar again.” She reaches towards him blindly, her fingers groping for his face. “If you won’t play along — ”

“I’ll play, I’ll play!” Draco says with terror; he glances to the corner, where the piano awaits. “I’ll play — I’ll play _Early One Morning_ — ”

“No, no. You’re going to the cellar, and _this_ time you’ll stay there.”

Then suddenly Narcissa vanishes, and the fire goes out, and Draco is left alone in the chilly room, half-collapsed against the wall as the door opens slowly.

“Draco? You all right?”

Draco looks up into Harry’s face. “You came back,” he says weakly.

“Of course.”

Draco hesitates, then straightens up. “Thank you.”

Harry nods and turns away, walking down the hallway. Draco glances over his shoulder into the dark Sapphire Suite, then hurries to catch up, his footsteps clattering loudly.

“Why did you come back?” he asks Harry.

He shrugs. “Let’s have a drink.”

Draco frowns at him, wondering why he isn’t asking more questions. What happened. Why he found Draco terrified in an apparently empty room. Perhaps Harry just doesn’t want to know any more, he thinks, but he says aloud, “Yes, we’ll have a drink.”

They go to the kitchens. Mrs Weasley has laid out her work area in preparation for the morning: clean mugs, a butter-knife, a breakfast tray.

“Wine,” Harry says, and Draco glances at him.

“What?”

“Wine. In the cellar.”

“No, a cup of tea’s fine.” Draco doesn’t think it’s wise to drink again with Harry, not after last time. Especially with the fog again tonight.

“Could you fetch a bottle?”

Draco gives him a faintly annoyed look. “I’m not the butler. If you want a drink, fetch it yourself.”

The phone begins ringing again. Draco pauses, and glances at Harry, then looks back at the phone. The one in the kitchen is an old rotary, outdated and intended for servants, and he reaches out slowly.

It keeps ringing. Draco debates with himself for a long moment, then picks it up and presses the cold receiver to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hi,” a voice says, sounding faintly embarrassed.

Draco knows that voice. He freezes, his hand gripping the receiver.

Harry’s voice echoes down the line. “Sorry I’m calling so late, only… because of the fog, you see, I just… just wanted to check on things, I guess, and you didn’t pick up earlier so I thought I’d call again...”

Draco turns around. Harry is sitting at the small kitchen table, humming idly to himself, looking at the items Mrs Weasley left out. She’s set the table for the staff to have their breakfast. Five plates, five sets of cutlery. Harry picks up a butter-knife and looks at it.

Draco turns back around, staring at the knife-notched counter. “Who is this?”

Harry’s voice comes down the line again. “Er… it’s _me_. Harry?”

Draco stares at the counter. Behind him, he can hear the creak of a chair. He speaks again, injecting a bright cheeriness into his voice. “Well! Much as I’d love to catch up, the hour is a bit late. And you know what they say. One’s fun, two’s trouble. I’ll talk to you later, then?”

There’s a long pause. Then Harry’s voice crackles through the receiver. “Should I come up?”

“We’ll talk later. Bye.”

There’s another pause. Then — “On my way,” Harry says, and he abruptly hangs up.

Draco stays where he is. As though, if he doesn’t turn around, he can just pretend he’s alone.

But he’s not alone.

There’s the creak of the chair again, and then the long scrape of wood against stone as it’s drawn back.

“Wine,” Harry says.

Draco hangs up on the phone, listening to it click into place.

He turns around.

Harry is staring at him. His eyes look too dark, Draco thinks, like the irises have vanished and left only the large, black pupils behind. It could be the shadows, the lighting. The more he looks, though, the more odd Harry’s eyes seem, until at last Draco looks away. It’s always the eyes, he thinks, remembering Narcissa’s detached irises. Always not quite right...

“Get some wine,” Harry says. “From the cellar.”

Draco looks past Harry. The kitchen is large; directly ahead, it tapers off into a little corridor that passes by the pantry, the buttery, the root cellar. And then it vanishes into darkness.

Into the cellar.

To Draco’s right, there’s the door that leads to the hallway and the rest of the castle. To his left, there’s the courtyard door. He looks at Harry, then says, “All right. I’ll have a glass too, then.”

Harry says nothing, just turns his face to follow Draco, his eyes unblinking. Draco crosses the kitchen, to the cupboards near the courtyard door, and fetches two wine glasses. As he does so, he looks at the courtyard door from the corner of his eye, without turning his head.

It’s locked. 

Of course. Mrs Weasley always locks it each night, and Hermione checks all the doors anyway. Hermione holds the keys, and Draco has a master set, currently sitting on his bedside table.

A sweet reek suddenly chokes him; Draco looks away from the cupboard, into the face of Harry. He’s too close now, and Draco can see the edges of the illusion fraying; the way Harry’s skin looks all wrong, hanging onto his face as though any moment it will start sloughing away. The way his mouth sags open when he speaks, like a poorly-controlled puppet.

“What are you looking at?” Harry asks.

“Nothing.”

“Go to the cellar. Look for wine. Right at the back. In a brown bottle with a handwritten label.”

Draco looks at him, then nods twice. “Okay,” he says. He turns and steps forward, walking across the kitchen. Towards the cellar. He pauses, then looks over his shoulder at Harry. Harry stares at him, then opens his mouth, revealing a black and toothless maw. His eyes glitter beneath the sickly yellow glow of the overhead lightbulb.

He’s trying to _smile_ , Draco realises. Trying to _smile_ at him. Keeping up the charade.

He stumbles backwards into the narrow corridor. He can hear nothing now, only his racing heart and ragged breathing.

The sweet reek has subsided, at least; it stays with Harry in the kitchen. Draco walks slowly forward, pausing by the buttery to gulp deep lungfuls of the cool, damp air. There’s an external door in the buttery — to receive beggars, staff, and those otherwise not suited to use the castle’s proper entrances — but it was boarded up decades ago and Draco has the feeling Harry is still watching him. He doesn’t dare set foot in the buttery, fearing instant reprisal. Instead, he continues onwards, walking as slowly as possible. 

He steps into the cellar, fumbling for the light. It’s an old-fashioned light fitting, and he has to find the long cord and yank hard on it. The single lightbulb takes a long time to flicker to life, and it casts a dull amber light that hardly seems to touch the darkness.

Draco steps forward. The bottles shine like eyes from the dark alcoves. 

“Right at the back, Draco. Keep going.”

He looks around, but the voice appears to be disembodied. 

“Keep going,” the voice says again, right in his ear, and the sickly-sweet reek is back again, smothering him. 

He takes another step.

And then there’s the sound of a door slamming open, and clattering footsteps, and someone shouting out.

“Draco! _Draco!”_

He turns and bolts, racing back up the cellar stairs and into the kitchen, and it’s empty except for Harry, and it’s _his_ Harry, with his face red from cold, all out of breath, car keys in one hand, a jacket thrown over flannel pyjamas, hair sticking up in every direction, his eyes wide and bright.

“You all right?” Harry asks breathlessly.

“Fine,” Draco says very unconvincingly. After a moment, he adds, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Harry looks at him, then nods. He doesn’t ask what happened, or what Draco saw. Instead, he goes to the kettle and puts it on. “Cup of tea?”

“Not here,” Draco says, and then he winces and says, “I mean… I just want to leave the kitchen.”

Harry doesn’t ask about that either. He picks up the tea-tray Mrs Weasley has set aside. “Where do you want to go?”

“The Ruby Suite.” The place he feels most safe. Save for Dumbledore — who roams the entire castle and grounds, unfettered — he’s never encountered any ghosts there. It seems it’s haunted only by the past.

Harry gets the tea ready and they go upstairs together. 

* * *

They decide to spend the night in the Ruby Suite. Draco doesn’t want to return to the Emerald Suite. It’s where the fog always seems to find him. And Harry doesn’t seem particularly keen for them to go their separate ways. They’ll stay in the suite together.

 _Like old times,_ a little voice tells Draco, and he needs no Dumbledore to suddenly recall giggling in the dark, and whispering, and torches propped up in order to play shadow puppets. 

“We used to play together,” Draco says abruptly. He doesn’t want to talk about the kitchen, and the cellar, so he talks about this instead. “When we were kids.”

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the bookshelf. Harry — who had graciously retired to an armchair with a blanket and claimed not to feel tired — doesn’t look up from the fringe of his blanket. He’s twisting the gold fringe between his fingers, evidently lost in thought, but he murmurs, “Yes. We did.”

“When we were eleven.”

“When we were eleven,” Harry agrees. He resumes twiddling with the fringe on the blanket, then says, “In the cellar — ”

“Don’t,” Draco says too quickly. “Let’s talk about other things.”

Harry pauses, then says, “Do you remember when we first met? By the river.”

“No,” Draco says, though part of him suddenly senses babbling water, and sunlight dappling through the trees, and the scent of fresh-cut grass. “It was summer, I think.”

“Yeah. I wasn’t supposed to be on the property, but I snuck through a hole in the hedge. Up near the cemetery, where I knew nobody really looked. Used to do it every day. Sneak through the hedge, and walk along the river.” He doesn’t look up from the blanket. The gold threads are twisted tightly round his fingers now. “I’d heard rumours of ghosts. I thought maybe, if I kept looking, one day I’d see them. The ghosts of my parents.”

“I’m sorry.”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s fine. Anyway, it’s not a story about my parents. It’s a story about _us._ When we met. You found me by the river and wanted to know what I was doing, and I said I was looking for my parents. So you offered to help, because you thought I’d just lost them. And I was too frightened to correct you.”

“Frightened? Of the river?”

Harry looks up then, and says with amusement. “Of _you_ , you numpty. You were very bossy and snooty and I was frightened you’d tell me to leave, and then I’d _never_ get to see my parents.”

“Oh.” Draco feels disappointed somehow, and glances away.

But when he looks up again, Harry is smiling at him almost fondly. “But you didn’t tell me to leave,” he says. “You looked instead. All along the river. You were certain they’d be just around the next corner. I didn’t mind. It was nice, in a weird kind of way. Meeting someone who didn’t know me, and didn’t know what had happened to my parents. I could… pretend, sort of. That they were still alive. As long as we kept walking, and you kept saying ‘Oh, don’t worry, we’ll find them,’ I could keep pretending they would be just around the next turn of the river.” His smile fades then, and he looks back down at his hands. “But they weren’t.”

“You weren’t supposed to be there,” Draco says suddenly. Footsteps sneaking along hallways. Secret passageways. Whispers outside closed doors. 

Harry nods. “Your dad was such a snob, you were worried he wouldn’t let me play with you. Worried you’d lose your new friend. So we borrowed a name. You lied to your dad. Told him I was someone else. You were so frightened… I think it was the first time you’d ever lied to your father. You said I was James Yaxley, a cousin of one of the old families your dad liked. The wealthy families.”

Draco hesitates. There’s little fragments of memories now — running over the fields, hiding in the orchard — the smell of rain and damp earth — the taste of slightly bitter, unripe apples — and he says slowly, “But something happened.”

Harry twists the fringe of the blanket around his thumb, winding it tighter and tighter until his skin turns dark, the circulation slowed. “I don’t remember.”

“You do. You must.”

Harry looks up, a sudden flash of defiance crossing his face, and says, “Do _you?”_

Draco gets up from the bed, restless and unsettled, and crosses the room to stand by the window. “Did we ever go to the cellar?”

“I don’t think so.”

Draco looks at the closed door, then says quietly, “It followed me.”

“What?”

“The… thing in the Sapphire Suite. It followed me. I didn’t know it could leave the room. It wore a face. Your face. And before that, I think it… I think it wore my mother’s face. It made me go to the cellar. I think… that maybe… there’s something down there. Waiting for us.”

Harry’s head snaps up. “What do you mean, it _wore_ my face?”

There’s a quiet creak from the window by Draco. He pauses and looks at the long velvet curtains pulled shut over it, then glances at Harry.

Harry shakes his head minutely, as though trying not to disturb the air. “They don’t like it,” he says, his voice low, “when we talk about them. Not here.”

Draco looks at the curtains. He could tweak one aside, he thinks. Look outside. Just to check.

But he knows what he’ll see. Only his face, reflected back at him, and he’ll stare at it.

Until he realises it’s not his face after all.

Draco steps away from the window. 

* * *

He sleeps. Harry claims he’ll keep watch, which personally Draco thinks is stupid anyway. What could he possibly do if a ghost shows up — challenge it to a fight? Though the more Draco thinks about it, the more it seems like a very likely outcome. Of _course_ Harry would attempt to beat up a ghost.

But it does help, somehow, knowing Harry’s yawning in an armchair nearby, and Draco sleeps deeply. By the time he wakes, morning light is streaming through the windows and someone’s opening the door to the Ruby Suite. Draco sits up just in time to hear a stream of profanities followed by a loud clattering noise.

“ _Christ!_ Draco, you bloody prat! I thought this room was empty! Why aren’t you in your _own_ suite? Just about gave me a heart attack, I’ll be applying for worker’s compensation about this!” Ron angrily rights his dropped pail and begins collecting the scattered kindling. “Who wakes up like that? Just straight upright like some bloody zombie rising from the dead, or a vampire… it’s _rude_ , that’s what it is, just downright inconsiderate.” He marches over to the hearth and aggressively harasses the coals, then dumps the kindling on top of them. “Harry’s not here, by the way, called in sick. Because he didn’t get enough sleep last night. Hermione was all worried – _ooh, have the nightmares about your parents come back, oh no, poor Harry_ — but _I’ve_ got some ideas about the lack of sleep. Proper fog last night. _Proper_ fog.”

“I’ll tell Hermione on you,” Draco says meanly, climbing out of bed. “I’ll tell her you’re being unprofessional. I’ll tell her you’re being awful to me.”

Ron points a poker at him. “Mark my words. You’re asking for trouble. Harry’s bad enough as it is, he doesn’t need you to encourage him. He’s got a real hero complex, that one. Thinks he can save everyone.”

“I don’t need saving, I can take care of myself,” Draco retorts, then reddens as he thinks of Harry charging into the kitchens last night to rescue him. 

“Your father thought the same thing. That he could handle the castle himself. Then Nev found him by the river.” Ron puts the poker down rather forcefully. “Harry’s foolish, and you’re clever. _That’s_ a recipe for trouble.”

Draco says nothing as Ron clatters about in the hearth for a bit, then says, “You know Gaelic, don’t you?”

“A little.” Ron opens the flue. “Why?”

” _Is treise dithis a dol thar an atha, na fad’o’ chèile_. What does that mean?”

Ron mutters it to himself as he feeds the fire, then at last says, “A rough translation — _rough_ , mind you — is, ‘Two together are stronger than apart.’ Why, where’d you hear it?”

“Someone said it to me once.”  
  
Ron doesn’t look the slightest bit convinced. “Yeah,” he says instead. “Like I said. Harry’s foolish, and you’re clever.”

Draco doesn’t reply.

* * *

  
  
Later in the day, Harry shows up on the front steps with a pocketful of apple peel for Clement and an invitation to the local inn for Draco.

“All right,” Draco says, “but you can tell Mrs Weasley.”

Harry does so, and reappears looking very sorry for himself. “Let’s go,” he says. “I’ve received your cook’s very grudging blessing. I’ll ask Nev for the keys.”

Draco pulls a face. “I’d rather not take my father’s car.”

Harry looks at him, then shrugs and turns away, heading down the driveway. His car is an old Vauxhall Nova, small and boxy and in need of a paint job. Draco has to heave on the passenger door to open it; a large dent makes it difficult. 

“Er, yeah. Tried to parallel park next to a tree, and… _anyway_ , been meaning to get it fixed for a while,” Harry says, looking embarrassed, and that annoys Draco for reasons he can’t pinpoint.

“Still better than my father’s car,” he says defiantly.

“The Black Prince? Are you mad? That car is worth a mint — ”

“To me, it’s worthless.”

Harry looks at him again, then turns the ignition. “You don’t talk about him much. Your father.”

“No, I don’t.”

Harry doesn’t take the cue. “Why not?”

“What does it matter?” Draco says tersely. 

Harry stares ahead as he drives over the gravel. The long driveway vanishes into the distance, swept even and perfectly straight. Overhead, the sky is dark with rain. “Suppose it doesn’t,” he says.

They spend the rest of the trip in silence before Draco says abruptly, as Harry parks outside the Three Oaks, “I’m not obliged to forgive him, you know. And I’m not going to pretend that he turned into a good man the moment he died.”

Harry doesn’t say anything for a bit. He gets out of the car, and waits for Draco to join him on the footpath, and he walks into the inn and gives Dean a little nod, and goes to a table and sits down.

“Forgive what?” he asks as Draco sits opposite him.

“What?”

“You said you’re not obliged to forgive your father. Forgive him for what?”

Draco opens his mouth and pauses. At that moment, Dean shows up with a glass of whiskey for Harry.

“Hey, Harry! Was nice seeing Ginny and Luna again, been too long. Ginny’s mum misses her so much, it’s a shame that Ginny won’t move back. Here, try this one. New batch from the distillery down by the glen. I’ll warn you, it’s strong and peaty.”

“Did Luna take care of the wasp nest?” Draco asks, apropos of nothing. He doesn’t know why he said it, only that a memory lurks beneath the surface. Wasps. Fruit rotting on the ground. A sweet stink. Putrefied flesh. _Oh, don’t deceive me..._

Dean pauses and looks at him, and he seems a little mollified. “Oh, you remembered? Yeah… yeah, she took care of it. Should’ve just killed the damn things. Too nice for her own good. Bit like our Harry.”

“Ron says Harry’s foolish.”

Dean puts his head back and laughs; Harry looks a little taken aback. Dean claps Draco on the shoulder, hard enough to send him forward a little into the table. “I’ll bring over a glass for you too. You like the smoky whiskies?”

It’s an acquired taste, but Draco recognises the olive branch and he’s not about to burn it. “Thanks.”

Dean nods and ambles away. Harry frowns at Draco.

“You talk to Ron about me?”

Draco clears his throat. “Listen, I’ve been thinking. About things. And how maybe… maybe Ron’s got a point. You’re foolish. I’m clever.”

Harry pauses. “I’m not stupid.”

“No, you’re not, but sometimes you just don’t think about things. You rush forward. I figure things out quickly, and you act quickly, and — “

Harry takes a sip of his drink. “So? Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe we can fix all of this, somehow. The river, and the — “

“I don’t think it _is_ a good thing, and I don’t think investigating is a good idea. What was it you told me? When a haunted room is calling you, then don’t answer.”

“We _have_ to answer now.” Harry sets his glass down. “You said it followed you, Draco. It wore my face. Things are getting worse. What are you going to do, lock the doors every night and refuse to move? The fog is there so often now — ”

“I could leave.”

Harry stops and looks at him.

“I could leave,” Draco repeats, and he looks down at his glass. “I could go back to London. I never meant to stay here forever, anyway...”

When he glances up again, Harry looks furious. “Running away,” he says coldly.

“I am _not_ running away. You told me, you _said_ not to answer the call, and that’s what I’m doing. Not answering it.”

“You selfish prat. My parents died by that river. Fred died by it. Your own father. You think if you go back to London, all of this will just stop? No. It won’t. Someone else is going to end up floating face-down in that river. But I guess it’s all right, as long as _you’re_ safe.”

“Yes! If the alternative is me floating in that river, then yes! I’d rather be safe! If I left, I’d be doing the right thing — the clever thing — “

“The cowardly thing,” Harry says. “Just admit you’re frightened.”

“Of _course_ I’m frightened! These… these things that are happening… they’re happening to _me!_ It’s easy for you — ”

“Easy for me,” Harry repeats flatly, and he stands up. “Well, thanks for letting me know you’re leaving. You promised you would, didn’t you? I should’ve listened.”

Draco says nothing and Harry leaves. Moments later, the engine of the Vauxhall rumbles to life and then vanishes into the distance. 

He looks down at his glass, then raises it and finishes it in one long scull. When he sets it back down, he catches Dean’s eye.

“Er,” Dean says, “You can use the phone to call Nev for a lift. He won’t mind. Your dad always had him driving everywhere at all sorts of hours.”

Draco inspects his empty glass. “Another drink first,” he says.

Dean, to his credit, only nods and goes back to minding his own business.

* * *

Draco starts the next morning with one hangover, which feels like it multiplies into four more, each one with a distinct name: Hermione, Ron, Neville, and Mrs Weasley.

“Ron said you’d gone a bit mad,” Hermione says, arriving in the doorway of the Emerald Suite. “What’s all this, then?”

“I’m leaving,” Draco says without looking at her. He resumes his task: cramming clothes into a suitcase. “I’ve booked the ticket.”

“When? _Today?_ There’s nothing available — ”

“He paid, I dunno, about eight hundred pounds for a plane ticket to London,” Ron says helpfully, from where he’s perched on the edge of Draco’s bed. A sure sign of unprofessionalism that would usually have Hermione righteous with indignation, but she’s too distracted with the current disaster. “See? Madness.”

“Ron, get off the bed!” Hermione snaps. “Lounging about like _you’re_ the master of the castle… get off!”

Not quite distracted enough, evidently. 

“Erm,” Neville says, arriving with a puzzled expression and the car keys. “Ron said you were wanting a lift, Draco… to the airport...?”

“Excuse me, coming through!” Mrs Weasley sings, joining the crowd in the doorway, a freshly-laid tea tray in her hands, but she spots Draco’s suitcase and her smile freezes. “What’s going on?”

“Draco’s leaving,” Ron announces loudly.

“No,” Hermione says even more loudly. “No, he’s not. There’s just been — some sort of misunderstanding, that’s all, and — ”

“I’m leaving,” Draco says. “Indefinitely. Hermione, I will put you in contact with my solicitor in order to make arrangements on my behalf.”

“Leaving?” Mrs Weasley gasps, nearly dropping her tray. “Leaving? But — _why_ , Draco? Why? Was it something that happened? Did you get spooked on the stairs? I _did_ tell you not to look up — ”

“Indefinitely?” Neville asks, looking shocked. “But… you mean you’re just leaving? _Properly_ leaving?”

“Nobody’s leaving!” Hermione says. 

“I’m afraid I am.” Draco zips his suitcase closed. “Thank you all for your hospitality. I understand that my departure is somewhat abrupt and will inconvenience you, and I do apologise for that. Neville, if you could start the car. It’s a rather cold morning and the engine will need warming.”

“All the way to Inverness Airport?” Neville asks, eyes still wide.

“I’m afraid I wasn’t able to secure a train ticket at such short notice.”

“Wait! Let’s — let’s just take a moment, let’s talk about this properly,” Hermione says. “Arrangements need to be made, and — and — ”

“I’m sorry,” Draco says, “but I’m leaving. Now. I trust you to manage things as well as you always have.”

Hermione ignores the compliment. “What happened? _Something_ must have — ”

“I’m afraid I need to leave now, or I’ll miss my flight.”

“But — your breakfast,” Mrs Weasley says helplessly. 

“It was nice to meet all of you.” Draco picks up his suitcase and gently moves past them. They part silently, watching him go, and after a moment Neville starts as if remembering his job and jogs to catch up to Draco. 

Draco half-expects Neville to start questioning him but he simply says, “I’ll carry that, Mr Malfoy.”

“I’ve got it.”

They descend the staircase. As Draco crosses the foyer, he glances into the open doors to his left, leading into the Great Hall. There’s a figure sitting at one of the tables. 

Straw lining the floor, he thinks suddenly. The murmur of a crowd.

_Meet me at midnight. At our usual place._

“Mr Malfoy?”

Draco glances back at Neville, then looks back to the Great Hall. Harry still sits there, his back to Draco, gazing upward at the glass ceiling. 

“Yes, let’s go,” Draco says.

He turns and hurries out the door.


	7. The Lovers

Pansy is only too happy to welcome Draco back to the city life. 

“I  _ told _ you,” she says. “I said it was too boring and you’d eventually snap. You’re not meant for that, Draco. Cows and turnips.”

But if the highlands are cows and turnips, then Draco finds only too easily that London is trains and smog. He had hoped that he’d finally settle back into his old life. Now that he’s back home. His surname is enough for him to easily find a job at one of Lucius’s consultancy firms, if he so desired, and he could find an apartment somewhere. 

_ You never amounted to much. A comfortable job in one of your father’s consultancy firms... _

At night, he sleeps restless in Pansy’s apartment. The city lights filter through the thin curtains. He can hear Pansy and Theo staying up late, talking and laughing. Everyone seems to stay up late here. It’s never silent.

He dreams and dreams of wide skies and open fields. Forests of birch and cedar. The clean smell of the earth after a good rain. A night so clear it seems crowded with stars. A peacock calling out mournfully into the morning mists. 

After a few days, he moves along before he outstays his welcome. He returns to his dusty apartment in Teddington, despite Pansy’s protests.

“You’re always welcome here,” she tells him as he leaves her apartment, and he thinks it’s not quite true. Their friendship is already starting to fade a little. Pansy keeps saying,  _ you’ve changed, _ and Draco keeps feeling as though it’s everything else that has changed.

He’d forgotten how small his old apartment was; it appears to be approximately the size of a postage stamp. Draco had sold his furniture before moving to Agsworth. He had assumed he would return soon enough and had decided to use the brief absence to update the apartment and buy a new set of furniture.   


Well, he’s back, he thinks ruefully, in a completely empty apartment. It doesn’t matter. He’ll buy everything later, he thinks, and he sleeps on a mattress on the floor with his suitcase next to him. 

At night, he stares at the ceiling, and wonders what the others are doing. If Hermione is locking up the doors like usual, checking each one like a mother checking on her children. If Mrs Weasley is washing up the last few dishes of the day. If Neville is ensuring Clement is snoozing safely in the stables. If Ron’s stacking the logs by the courtyard door, so they’re ready for tomorrow morning’s fires. 

And Harry.

Draco thinks about him a lot. If Harry’s still at the castle. Fixing all the little things. The chips and scratches and stains and marks. Walking from room to room. Going to the Ruby Suite, sitting on the edge of the bed. Flipping through those old childhood books. Walking along the river, searching and searching for his parents.

_ But you didn’t tell me to leave. You looked instead. All along the river. _

But Draco isn’t looking now. He’s hundreds of miles away, sitting in a little beige apartment in Teddington, in a room with only a mattress and a suitcase.

And he is alone.

* * *

London is getting ready for Christmas. Pansy always loved it, and Draco used to love it too. He dutifully attends Pansy’s chosen activities and wonders why he doesn’t feel anything. The Trafalgar Square tree towers tall over spectators. The Royal Botanical Gardens are illuminated with more than a million tiny lights. The ice rinks pop up across the city, glittering beneath the city lights at night. 

And yet, somehow the magic has all vanished. 

Draco can’t figure out how he’s back in London, yet still wants to go home.

* * *

On Christmas Day, Pansy arrives at the little apartment, laden with presents, and is horrified.

“Draco! Where is the furniture? You’re sleeping on the  _ floor?” _

“On a mattress,” he says defensively. “I’ll get around to purchasing furniture.”

“It’s been weeks! Why haven’t you  _ bought _ anything?”

“Just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

Pansy frowns at him, puts the presents down, and looks for somewhere to sit. Upon finding no options, her scowl deepens. “You haven’t gone back to work yet. Just show up, and they’ll hand you a job on a platter. You’re a  _ Malfoy _ .”

“I’m very aware of my surname, thank you.”

Pansy puts her hands on her hips. “Get some nice furniture, get a nice consultancy job again, and everything can go back to normal. I want my best friend back. We’ll go to the bars, and — ”

“And what? Sit there and make fun of people and giggle into our drinks?” Draco says curtly, and Pansy’s expression crumples. 

“What happened to you? You’re not  _ you _ anymore!”

“Of course I’m me! How can I not be myself?”

“Well, you’re not! I want the _old_ Draco back, the one who was fun!”

Draco looks at her. “Thank you,” he says coldly. 

“Well, it’s true!”

“You ought to leave now. I’d prefer to be alone.”

“Well, I don’t want your company either,” Pansy says angrily, though he can see the tears in her eyes. She leaves, slamming the door behind her. 

Draco goes to the little kitchenette and puts the kettle on, just to have something to do with his hands. He gets out a teabag. Mrs Weasley never used teabags.  _ Not for a proper cup,  _ she’d say firmly, fetching a strainer and a sachet of loose leaves. 

The kettle whistles loudly, startling him.

He regrets the argument with Pansy, he truly does. It had been simmering beneath the surface for a while, and he’d known it was inevitable. But he regrets that it happened today, on Christmas, when Pansy had clearly been hoping to enjoy the visit. Her presents are still piled in the corner of the room, and he goes to the pile and slowly unwraps them. They’re the usual presents she would have bought him; the things that used to mean something to him. A designer watch, gold cuff-links, a bottle of fine wine, a wallet made of full-grain leather. 

He wonders what Harry would have gotten for him.

But that doesn’t matter. Harry can’t send anything anyway, not even a card. Draco left no forwarding address. No contact number. Nothing. 

It’s raining outside, sleety and grey. It would be snowing up in the highlands.  _ Proper _ snow. The castle would be empty, Draco imagines. They’d all be somewhere cosy, like the caretaker’s cottage or Mrs Weasley’s little house in the village. He can picture the scene clearly in his mind, all of them smiling and telling awful jokes from the Christmas crackers, and eating plum pudding. They would have bought Neville some gardening tools, Draco thinks. Mrs Weasley probably made things for the others; she seems like the crafty sort. Knitting or painting, something to do by the fire after a long day of work. Harry would have gotten small things for his friends, thoughtful gifts. A board game to play with Ron, or a leatherbound ledger Hermione liked the look of but decided it was too luxurious to justify. 

Draco used to play those games. Imagining the lives of others. He was always so good at it, and Pansy would often dissolve into laughter over his sharp-tongued comments and observations. But the game feels different now, as he pictures the cosy Christmas scene at Agsworth, and it doesn’t really feel like a game at all. 

And it’s no longer fun.

* * *

He visits Pansy the next day. Theo answers the door and is a bit cool with him; Draco accepts that. He brings the gifts he’d intended for Pansy, the ones he’d dutifully bought, the same luxury things she’d always enjoyed, and he brings along a bouquet of yellow roses to apologise. Their friendship might be fading, but Draco’s known Pansy for years. He’s not going to sever their friendship with the same efficiency as Ron lopping off flower heads. 

Pansy accepts the peace offering, and fusses over the present, and then cries a bit.

“You  _ have _ changed,” she tells Draco. “You have.”

“I know.” Draco hesitates, then says, “I’m going down to Gloucestershire for a bit.”

Pansy dabs her eyes and peers at him. “To the old manor?”

“Yes.”

She chews her lip, evidently deep in thought, then says, “I think it might be good for you. You might...” She trails off. “You haven’t been there for a long time. Not since...” She stops again, then tries for a watery smile. “Well. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

They say their farewells, and hug, and Theo is slightly warmer to Draco when he leaves. 

Draco doesn’t know what he’s looking for, either, but he has the feeling it’s somewhere deep in the Scottish highlands.

* * *

Aunt Andromeda lives in the old family home. Narcissa had left it to Draco in her will, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to live there. He was already in London by the time his mother died. He had been partying with Pansy and Theo and Blaise and all the rest, and the thought of returning to quiet, dull Gloucestershire had been unbearable. Better to keep the party going, far away from the remnants of his family, laughing and drinking and forgetting.

He suddenly thinks of his father. The endless parties at the castle. Driving fast on the little country roads. Smoking his cigars and enjoying his whiskies.

Laughing and drinking and forgetting.

His aunt welcomes him. He’s always liked Andromeda, and it hadn’t been a difficult choice to let her stay at the manor. She’s kept it perfectly preserved for all these years, save for her brief stay at Agsworth. 

“Where are you staying, darling?” she asks him, ushering him into the foyer of the manor. “The master room is yours, of course, but I know how sentimental we are, so if you want your childhood room — ”

“A guest room will be fine.  _ Not _ that one on the third floor, with the bust of Dianthus Black.”

Andromeda laughs at him. “You always did hate that bust. Said it looked like whoever made it had only ever heard a human being described, and never actually seen one.”

“Can’t believe someone paid money for it.”

Andromeda smiles at him. “It’s good to see you again,” she says. “I did worry about you, tucked away in that dreadful castle.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

Andromeda’s smile fades. She reaches up and pats her hair, making sure the pins are in place and it’s still perfectly styled. It’s always been a nervous habit of hers. “Well. I don’t know. Just seems like a… rather lonely place.”

“You wrote to me when you were staying there. Of ghosts. A woman with black eyes.”

“Did I?” Andromeda pats her hair again. “Well. I suppose it’s easy to let one’s imagination run free in a castle like that. I do recall some awful nightmares. I think perhaps there were one or two… presences. Not one for that sort of stuff, but there were some icy spots in the hallways...”

Harry’s voice echoes in Draco’s thoughts.  _ And now you’re here, with a lot of safe distance between you and the castle, and you convince yourself that it’s nothing. All just a bad dream.  _

“Enough talk of these things,” Andromeda announces. “Come, let’s catch up properly. Let’s have some tea and biscuits. I bought some shortbread — your favourite.”

They go to the kitchens, which are empty. There are no staff. Andromeda does her own cooking, and hires a cleaner to visit twice a week for the dusting and vacuuming of the endless rooms. She’s always been fiercely independent like that, Draco thinks. Always doing her own thing. She’d been the first in her family to get a job, a  _ real _ job, and had become a nurse, much to the horror of her rather old-fashioned father. He’d been even more horrified when she’d married a postal clerk, and had cut them both off from the family.

It makes Draco even more fond of Andromeda. 

“The staff were quite lovely at Agsworth,” Andromeda says, fetching a biscuit-tin from the pantry. “Can’t fault them there. Hermione’s a bit stern-faced but she’s wonderful at her job. And that Ron! Lovely man. So chatty and helpful. Always happy to see me. Nev’s a dear, isn’t he? Just the sweetest boy.”

“Yes, they’ve all been kind to me.”

“It was just the castle itself. Too… I don’t know. Isolated, I suppose. Did you feel lonely there?”

“A little.”

Andromeda nods and offers a shortbread. Draco accepts it then gives it a polite nibble. It’s shop-bought, crumbly and a little too dry. He thinks of Mrs Weasley’s rich, buttery shortbread and is suddenly overcome with a wave of homesickness. “Well,” Andromeda says. “I promise I won’t get in your way here — I’m not often home, anyway. You know I like to keep myself busy, especially since my Ted died. Still working part-time, though I know everyone thinks I ought to retire. Volunteer down at the care home every Tuesday. I’ve got lunch with Janet Herlihy today — remember her? No? Oh, she went to school with your mum.  _ Lovely _ woman.”

Draco lets his aunt chatter on about faces he doesn’t remember and names he’s forgotten. She always knows so much, he thinks, about everyone. Family friends, family, relatives. After his mother died, he kept thinking he ought to ask Andromeda for stories about Narcissa’s life. When she was a little girl, growing up in Gloucestershire.

And yet he somehow never found the time.

“Well, I’ll be off now,” Andromeda says, standing up. “Can’t linger. Don’t want to leave poor Janet waiting. I’ll see you later, darling.”

He stands and kisses her cheek, and Andromeda leaves in a waft of gardenias and silk scarves. His mother used to wear the same scarves. Floral-printed, translucent and pretty. When Draco was a child, he’d always been entranced by the material, and how it had seemed to float through the air. He remembers his mother laughing as he played with them, making them drift and flutter and fly. 

Draco doesn’t remember Lucius ever being there. As with all his childhood memories, there’s always an empty space instead of a person. He has very few memories of Lucius. Perhaps that’s where all the resentment started. In childhood, when Lucius was always too busy, always working or talking on the phone or collecting friends. Bits of power. And then later, when Lucius gave up all pretence of even trying to be a father, and simply moved to Agsworth. Draco had been about ten. He remembers listening to Narcissa cry behind closed doors.  _ We’re supposed to be together, we’re a family _ , she’d told Lucius. 

Lucius hadn’t listened.

Draco gets up and tips his cold tea down the sink. He wanders the silent manor. Andromeda has maintained it well; she hasn’t redecorated either. No need. Narcissa always had impeccable taste, from the teal-and-gold brocade curtains to the dusty pink cabriolet armchairs. The manor is decorated in the baroque style, with furniture gilded in gold leaf and tabletops made of white marble. In the ballroom, one of the most opulent rooms, a great mural decorates the high ceiling; chubby cherubs send golden arrows singing through the coral-coloured clouds.

It’s an abrupt contrast with Agsworth Castle, standing tall and defiant in the Scottish highlands, its windows small and narrow to guard against the brutal winters, designed to protect rather than entertain. But Agsworth has its own charms somehow, with its fireplaces burning low and cosy beneath ceilings of wooden rafters, and the furniture made of simple and sturdy oak. 

Draco goes to his childhood room. It’s how he left it. The walls are still painted robin-egg blue. His bookcase is still there, the childhood books pushed to one end to make room for the textbooks of his teenage years. Draco hadn’t bothered much with school. There was no need to achieve high marks. He was a Malfoy; he was used to his father pulling strings to get whatever Draco wanted. His teachers had begged him to apply himself.  _ You’re so clever, it’s such a waste of potential, _ they’d say. But Draco hadn’t cared. His father could get him a job at one of his firms. It would pay well and would require little effort.

_ But you just float about on the tides, letting them take you where they will.  _

Draco turns away from the bookshelf and goes to the bed, sitting on the corner of it. Nothing’s changed, he thinks.

And yet, everything is different.

* * *

Aunt Andromeda spends little time at the manor. She’s always busy, always working or volunteering or chatting to her friends. She’s got her own life, full and purposeful, and Draco doesn’t interrupt it. He wanders the manor and wonders why he’s there. Pansy had said he was looking for something, and he knows she meant closure, and yet it seems as though he’s not even finding  _ that _ .

He visits his mother’s grave with a bouquet of narcissus. Lucius is buried beside her, and Draco glances at his gravestone.

_ Forgive him for what?  _ Harry had asked.

For not being there, Draco thinks. It wasn’t what Lucius had done. It was everything he  _ hadn’t _ done. He’d been more interested in disappearing to Agsworth to hold his little parties and enjoy his stupid cigars than raising his own child and spending time with his wife.

Still, the more Draco looks at the gravestone, the more he thinks that he should have brought flowers for his father too, and he’s annoyed with the sentiment.

In the end, he plucks a single flower from his mother’s bouquet, and puts it upon Lucius’s grave.

* * *

On New Year’s Eve, Andromeda leaves Draco in the kitchens and swans off to some elaborate community gala. She extends an invitation to Draco; sensing a crowd of Andromeda’s pearl-wearing, lavender-scented friends loudly telling each other, ‘Look, it’s Cissy’s little boy!’, he declines.

He should call Pansy, he thinks, and dutifully catch up. Her wedding is just around the corner now. A spring one. He’ll be there, of course, but he wonders how long they can hang onto their friendship. Blaise has already faded away, lost into the London crowds, too busy to call. Greg and Vincent went off to Manchester; they took jobs in a relative’s company. Draco had promised to keep in touch, then let the friendships die a quick death. He’d only befriended them at school so they could lumber about and act as his personal security guards, should anyone decide to annoy him. After graduation, they had no use for him.

No use for him.

Draco thinks of how he’d ignored their letters and never picked up their calls. He thinks of how he curled his lip at his father’s parties. Collecting stupid but strong people. Insufferable prats who nevertheless held high positions somewhere. It had been disgraceful, he thought, how his father picked up and discarded people as needed. 

He’s just like him, he thinks. Just like his father after all. All those stupid things he did to get away from his father’s shadow, and  _ that’s _ the joke.  _ That’s _ the punchline waiting at the end for him. He’d started off wanting to be like Lucius, an important man, a business genius, clever and powerful. Then, as he grew older and lost his childlike idolisation of his father, he’d found Lucius’s flaws and hated them: his superficial values, and insincerity, and carelessness.

And in the end, Draco had none of Lucius’s qualities, and all of his flaws.

_ A bland and ordinary man. A disappointment.  _

Draco leaves the kitchens and goes upstairs, a bottle of champagne in hand. Past the ballroom with its cheerful cherubs, and the gilded parlours, and his mother’s old rooms with her perfumed scarves still hanging from the hooks and her jewellery still upon her vanity table. Past his little room, painted robin-egg blue for a little boy long since gone. 

To his father’s room.

Even this room never escaped his mother’s gentle touch. There’s soft watercolours on the wall, paintings that Lucius never would have chosen. A lamp with a French oval shade that determinedly battles with the plainness of the rest of the room. A small alarm clock sits next to the lamp, plastic and square and most certainly Lucius’s sensibility rather than Narcissa’s beauty. 

Draco sits on the edge of the bed; dust rises from the covers. He remembers his mother crying in this room long after Lucius left. She missed him. She wrote him all the time, and called him, and she  _ missed _ him. Draco often stayed up late at night, listening to Narcissa pacing the floor of the drawing room and talking wretchedly into the phone.  _ Come home, why don’t you come home? We miss you. Draco needs his father. _

Apart from Narcissa’s touches, there’s little else in the room. A bedside table, a wardrobe, the bed itself. Straight lines, dark wood. More suited to the stern Agsworth Castle than the opulence of Malfoy Manor. When Narcissa had died, Draco had gone to her room and touched the silk scarves, the heavy jewellery, the beautiful dresses lined up in the wardrobe. Trying to find his mother again and knowing he couldn’t.

But when Lucius died, Draco had done everything possible to avoid Agsworth Castle. He’d sent relative after relative there; it had taken him nearly two years to concede defeat and go there himself. And even then, he’s not once stepped foot into Lucius’s rooms. He supposes Ron must go in there, to clean them. Or perhaps he doesn’t, and the curtains will be thick with dust, and dead flies will be littering the window sills, and his father’s fine clothes will be moth-eaten.

Draco looks at the clock. A quarter to twelve.

Impulsively, he gets up and goes to the little study adjoining the room, where Lucius — when he still lived at the manor — used to do his accounts. Always working. Always closing the door in Draco’s face. 

Draco pushes it open now, hard enough for it to bounce off the wall, and he steps into the room, goes over to the desk, and picks up a paperweight, letting it fall to the ground. It shatters, sending glittery shards scattering over the floorboards. Draco stares down at the mess, then picks up a globe, heavy and expensive, the continents etched in gold leaf, and hurls it to the floor, watching it join the fate of the paperweight. 

After that, it feels almost casual to destroy the room. To rip open the desk drawers, and send papers flying, and lamps clattering, and inkwells cascading over the Persian rug along with the stupid fountain pens that Lucius liked to collect. It’s  _ easy _ , really, and when Draco finally runs out of fury, he thinks he’ll feel something else. Regret, perhaps, or sorrow, or joy.

But he feels nothing.

He slumps in the corner of the study, picks up the bottle of champagne, finds it empty, and flicks it across the room. 

Somewhere, a clock strikes midnight. 

* * *

The next day, Draco wakes slowly. He’s lying on the rug in his father’s study, papers scattered around him, bits of broken glass shining in the morning sun, and a hangover creeping up on him. 

“Quite done with your quarter-life crisis, darling?”

Draco looks up. Andromeda is leaning on the doorway, looking unimpressed.

“Oh,” he says.

“Yes. Can’t really blame you, I suppose. Saw it coming the moment you decided to show up here. Nobody returns to their childhood home unless they’re planning to ambush twenty years of familial dysfunction.” Andromeda crosses the floor and rights a lamp. “Feel better?”

“Not really.”

“Well. Perhaps just bottle it up, then, like the rest of us.” Andromeda tidies a stack of papers. When she speaks again, her voice is a little softer. “Your father  _ did _ love you, Draco. I know he was rather difficult sometimes, but he did love you. He made a lot of sacrifices for his family.”

Draco gets to his feet, wincing at the headache elbowing its way through his brain. He doesn’t particularly feel like talking about this right now, particularly with Aunt Andromeda standing there all dressed up to meet her friends for brunch. “Oh? And what sacrifices were those, exactly?”

She gives him a surprised look. “The castle.  _ Someone _ had to run it, didn’t they? He desperately wanted to stay here with his family, but...” Andromeda frowns down at the paperweight. “Duty called.”

“Someone else could have run it.”

Andromeda purses her lips, pats her hair a few times, then says, “Lucius was often selfish, but I can’t fault him for the castle. He knew...” She trails away, then rearranges her scarf.

“Knew what?”

“Knew what it could be like. Lucius wasn’t going to let someone else...” Andromeda struggles for a long moment, evidently doesn’t find the euphemism she wants, then says abruptly, “He wasn’t going to see someone else drown in the river. Oh, when that poor child died — Fred Weasley, he was called — Lucius got worked up into a  _ terrible _ state. Blamed himself. Said that no Weasleys were ever allowed near the castle. He banned the entire family, you know. Wouldn’t let them set foot on the property. Cissy told me he’d wake up in a cold sweat, from nightmares of the entire family drowning...”

“No, he didn’t want the scandal — ”

Andromeda gives him a pitying look. “Well, of course that’s what he told people. He couldn’t very well explain that he had a haunted castle, could he? And the Potters — oh, just  _ awful _ . He blamed himself for that too, even though he still lived here, in Gloucestershire, and it was Abraxus who managed the castle back then. A couple, it was. Two of them. Floating down the river together. They had a little boy — poor little thing, just a baby — Lucius was so terribly paranoid about it. Had nightmares for years, and the first thing he said when he moved to the castle was no Potters either. He had a long list of families he wouldn’t allow on the property.”

“A list?”

“Oh, yes.” Andromeda gestures vaguely around the room. “In here somewhere. A list. Of families. Heavens knows why Lucius made a list of particular families. I told him, it’s just rotten luck. Just because one Weasley or Potter dies, doesn’t mean another one will. He was so  _ funny _ about it, though.”

Draco steps forward. “Where? Where’s the list?”

“In the desk, I imagine.” Andromeda eyes the destroyed study. “Or thrown out a window, or something. I don’t think you’ll uncover family secrets, darling. Just notes about the management of the estate.”

“And a list of names.”

Andromeda pats her hair, then says, “Yes. And a list of names.”

She leaves then, looking a little doubtful suddenly, and glances over her shoulder at the study before disappearing down the hallway. 

Draco listens to her footsteps recede, then turns his attention to the papers scattered around him. He’d hardly paid them mind last night, but now he painstakingly turns each paper over, reading Lucius’s lines of tiny handwriting.

And then a name catches his eye.

_ Dumbledore _ .

Draco picks up the piece of paper and reads it.

Well.

He’s got two choices, it seems, and this time he’d better make the right one.

* * *

  
The castle is the same as ever. Never changing, still and silent, towering over the land like a stone sentry. He passes by Ron, dusting the hallway portraits, and Ron nods at him.

“Welcome back, Mr Malfoy.”

Hermione greets him in the foyer. “Still in the Emerald Suite, Mr Malfoy?” she asks him.

“Yes.”

“Very well.”

He makes his way to the suite, Hermione following a few steps behind him. As he walks into the room, he says, “If you recall, when I first came here, I put a book in the wastepaper bin.”

“Yes, I do recall.”

“If it could be replaced, please.”

Hermione falters. Draco turns to glance at her. “I...” She stops. “You’d like a copy of _The Bloodlines of the Malfoy Family_?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She looks at him, then away, and then says, “You said you didn’t like it. That particular book.”

“I believe it might be useful now.”

Hermione shakes her head, her mouth becoming small and thin. “Begging your pardon, Mr Malfoy, but I don’t think you’ll find it useful.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she says, and she hesitates again. “I… I just don’t think it’s wise. To… read that book. You made the right choice, throwing it away.”

“Nevertheless.”

Hermione looks at him. “I’ll find another copy,” she says at last, and she turns and leaves.

* * *

  
  


The fog comes rolling up that night.

Draco expected that.

_Welcome home._

* * *

The next day, Draco goes upstairs. Past the Amber and Ruby Suites, past the drawing rooms, past the narrow library and the gallery hallway, and to the fourth floor. Where the master suite is.

He takes a breath and turns the handle, and finds it locked. He rattles the handle ineffectually a few times, then goes downstairs and grabs ahold of the nearest staff member: an unsuspecting Ron, happily rearranging flowers in a hallway vase.

“The master’s suite is locked.”

“Nah, don’t reckon.” Ron considers a wayward snowdrop and nudges it into place, then pauses. “Er. I mean — are you sure, Mr Malfoy?”

“Yes, I just tried to open it.”

“Maybe it’s jammed or something. I go in there once a week to vacuum and dust.”

“Well, can you break it open?”

Neville arrives then with an armful of daisies and primroses. “Break what open, Mr Malfoy?”

“The door to the master suite,” Ron says. “ _I’m_ not breaking it open, though. Not taking responsibility for an antique oak door, thanks very much.”

Neville pauses, then says, “Here’s the flowers, Ron. Reckon that vase of daisies in the gallery needs replacing, it’s looking a bit tragic.”

“All right.”

Ron wanders off. Neville watches him leave, then says to Draco, “Any reason you want to go into the master suite, Mr Malfoy?”

“Yes. I own this castle, and wish to come and go as I please.”

Neville acknowledges the chastisement with a little downwards nod, then says, “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. Only… Hermione said you were interested in the book.”

_The book._

“Yes, I am.”

“Well… the others didn’t work here back then. Just me and Hermione, and we… we remember. They don’t. But we do.”

“Remember what?”

Neville hesitates. “Your dad. Lucius. Before he died. He started… carrying little notebooks. Always writing. Spending time in his study. Stopped all his parties and things. Just became… obsessed.”

“With what?”

“I’m not sure, Mr Malfoy. Only that he read that little book – about the Malfoy lines — all the time. Always carrying it about. And then… and then… well, I found him. By the river.” Neville glances along the hallway and lowers his voice. “We are glad you’re back. Just not glad you’re _here_. This castle, well, it...”

_The castle has a way of getting what it wants._

“I understand,” Draco says. “But I must access that suite.”

Neville nods slowly, then says, “I’ll ask Harry or Ron to have a look at it. The door was jammed, you said?”

“It appears to be.”

Neville pauses, then says, “I’ll send Harry up, then.”

“Thank you.”

Neville nods and trudges away, a pair of gardening shears in his hand and a rather defeated expression on his face.

* * *

  
  


Harry arrives ten minutes later, and he looks at Draco and then says, “You came back.”

It’s the first time they’ve spoken since Draco left three months ago, and he’s not sure where they stand. But he says, “Yes, I did,” and then Harry hesitates.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. “I regret the way you left.” He reaches out, resting a hand against the oak door. “This castle...”

“Well, I regret it too.”

They look at each other, then Harry drops his hand to the handle and turns it. The door swings open smoothly and easily. 

“I _swear_ it was jammed — ”

“Don’t worry. It sticks for some people, opens for others. Hermione said Lucius struggled with it all the time. She used to laugh behind his back.” Harry pauses, as if suddenly remembering who he’s talking to, but Draco only smiles wryly. “Anyway. If you’d like to move into this suite, just let me know.”

“No, I’m perfectly happy in the Emerald Suite.”

“Oh. I thought you were going to have a look around in here. Perhaps move in. It’s the master suite, after all.”

“No. I’m looking for something.”

Harry stops and looks at Draco curiously, then says, “Want me to help?”

“No, thank you. I’d like you to stay, though. Just in case.” Draco steps into the room.

It’s spotless. He’d imagined a neglected and dusty room, but had forgotten to account for Ron’s dedication and Hermione’s thoroughness. The floor is freshly vacuumed, the rugs clean, and the windowsill tidy. There’s a large armoire in the corner, and a wardrobe; when Draco opens it, he smells only cedar. The clothes are all spotless. Ron’s been placing cedar chips in there, deterring the moths.

“He’s a good worker,” Draco says.

“Who?”

“Ron.”

“Yeah. He works harder than anyone I know. Just give him the chance and he’ll prove himself.”

Draco opens the bedside table drawer. There’s nothing in there. “Where’s my father’s copy of _The Bloodlines of the Malfoy Family?”_

“What?”

“My father’s personal copy of the book.”

“I… I don’t know. Maybe ask Hermione or Neville? They worked here when he was still alive.”

Draco shuts the drawer. “Your address on your employee file, is that correct?”

“Er, yes?”

“Good. I’ve mailed you something from Gloucestershire. When it arrives, call me. I’ll come and visit. You are not to bring it to the castle under any circumstances.”

Harry’s eyes are getting wider and wider. “Oh,” he says. “You found something.”

“Yes.” Draco goes to the window and glances out. Up here, the view is stunning, giving a wide panorama of the rolling fields and the forests. The snow is thawing; leaves are returning to the trees. He can see the wild deer in the distance, grazing in the meadows. He can see the tall line of spruces standing like guards around the cemetery in the very far distance. Too far away to spot anyone, and the tree line would make it too difficult to spot a child sneaking through the cemetery and onto the property. “Do you know,” he says after a moment, “what you’ve got in common with the Weasleys?”

“Erm, I dated Ginny once?” Harry tries.

“No, I don’t think that’s right.”

“Yeah, we didn’t think it worked either.”

Draco laughs, quick and loud, almost startling himself, and Harry grins. “Idiot,” Draco says, and he can hear the affection in his voice. God, he has to be careful or he’s going to end up doing something very _stupid_. “I meant I don’t think that’s the thing you’ve got in common.”

“Oh? Then what?”

Draco crosses the room. “We’ll talk later,” he says.

Harry’s still in the doorway, and he steps back a little so Draco can leave. Not quite enough, though, so they still end up brushing against each other, and then Harry says softly, “I’m glad you came back.”

Draco doesn’t reply, but his face stays warm for a long time after he’s descended the stairs and returned to the safety of the Emerald Suite. 

* * *

  
  


The parcel arrives a week later, and Draco goes down to the village after lunch, so Mrs Weasley can’t get too outraged about missed meals. Ron’s nosy as ever and stops Draco on the front steps to ask where he’s going; Draco tells him he’s going to the inn to complain to Dean about the menu.

“Complain about the menu?” Ron asks.

“Yeah, I’m not happy about the offerings. Sandwiches and soup? _Utterly_ unacceptable. I’ve got some constructive feedback for Dean. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the comments from a London cosmopolitan. I mean, I _know_ class. I know culture. I can really lift the standards of that inn.” Draco holds up a thick folder of notes.

“Oh, _no_ ,” Ron says with horror. “Are you serious?”

“Of course. Would you like to come along? I can give you some of the credit for my ideas, if you’d like. It’s high time Dean was introduced to something called a canapé.”

“Oh, you _are_ serious. Okay. Nah, I’m… nah, I’m good, mate. You just… try to come back in one piece. Best of luck.”

“Thanks. _Very_ excited to educate Dean about proper cuisine.”

“God help you,” Ron mutters under his breath, walking away.

With busybody Ron out of the way, Draco descends the steps and goes to the Prince. He’s driving it himself today, and he’s hoping it will behave. 

It mostly does, and he arrives in the village safely. Harry’s home is a little cottage tucked away in a quiet street. The front garden is emerging from hibernation, and judging by the haphazard climbing vines, creeping heather, and mismatched flower bushes dotted throughout, Draco has the feeling most of the plants were gifted by an enthusiastic Neville.

“Thought you were staying with Mrs Weasley,” Draco says as Harry lets him in.

“Well… I _am_ fond of her, but she still treats me like I’m a little kid. I feel like she forgets I’m twenty-six.”

Draco glances around the hallway as he steps inside, shrugging off his coat. Pictures hang on the wall, of a young smiling couple he doesn’t recognise. “Is this your parent’s house?”

“Yeah. It was put into a trust for me until I turned eighteen. Rented out privately for a long time. My relatives weren’t allowed to use it. Think my mum knew them too well, wanted to make sure they didn’t profit off it.” Harry laughs, but uneasily and Draco remembers him as a boy, thin-faced with baggy old clothes, dreaming of one day having a birthday wish. 

He doesn’t smile. 

Instead, he turns away from the photograph. “I’m sorry you lost your parents.”

Harry tries for a smile. “Well. Just around the next turn, right? We can pretend.”

Draco hangs his coat on a hook. “Around the river bend,” he says.

Harry turns and goes through a doorway. The house feels so small, the ceilings low and the doorways narrow, and Draco has to remind himself that he’s just used to castles and manors. He steps into a cosy living room, with a scratched coffee table laden with books, and a squashy tartan couch.

“Sorry,” Harry says, scooping a board game off the couch. 

Draco nods at it. “Got it for Ron, for Christmas?”

“How’d you guess?” Harry asks with surprise.

Draco shrugs and sits down on the couch. “Just a feeling.”

Harry pauses, then sits beside him and says, with all the heartfelt guilt of a heavy confession, “I read the notes.”

“Clearly. I _did_ mail them to you. You’re far too curious to leave a closed door alone.”

Harry blinks at him. “Oh.”

“What do you think, then?”

Harry hesitates, then clears a space on the table, pushing the books aside. The folder Draco sent is rescued from atop a pile of football magazines. “I think,” he says, “your dad was trying to connect them all. They all have something to do with each other.” Harry flips to the back of the book. “Here.” 

They look upon the diagram. In the middle, Lucius has written _The Lovers_ , and then drawn lines going outwards to each name: _The Reader, the Illusionist, the Hanged Man._

 _The Clock-Winder_ is written to one side, separate from the diagram. 

“The Lovers,” Draco says, tapping the names. “The river.”

Harry nods grimly. “That’s what I think. If you look at the earlier diagrams, you can see how Lucius’s research progressed.”

Research. Draco’s stomach turns unpleasantly at the thought of his father entering the dreaded Sapphire Suite on purpose, to find out more about the castle’s secrets. _Hard to withstand the memories,_ Lucius had written. _But I must learn more._

Harry smooths the paper. “At first, he thought The Lovers were the Reader and the Hanged Man. But you can see the Hanged Man crossed out. Then the Reader and the Illusionist, the Reader and Alexander — whoever he is — and on and on. Eventually he crossed off the Reader entirely, anyway.”

Draco reaches forward, turning the pages. “The Hanged Man, I don’t know,” he says. “Mrs Weasley’s seen him, I think. She told me that if I see a cold spot on the stairs, don’t look up.”

Harry gives a little grimace. “Yeah, I’ve met the Hanged Man. And the Reader. The others...” He shrugs. “I’ve heard the Illusionist call to me. But this Clock-Winder...” He stops and looks at Draco. “You know him.”

Draco drops his gaze to his father’s notes. “Yes.” Well, he thinks. He should say it. And Harry will laugh and think he’s gone absolutely mad, but he should say it. “He… keeps time.”

“And gives it away too, I imagine.”

Draco looks up. Harry looks thoughtful, a little crease in his brow, gazing down at the notes. “You’d believe me, then, if I told you...” Draco trails off.

Harry turns the pages. “It’s difficult to think about, but why not? It’s a haunted castle where something wears my face and lures you to the cellar. Where the fog creeps in the windows and we wake up with no memories. Why not add a time traveller? Ah, here.” He points at Lucius’s list of dates. “The exact years Lucius traveled to. He got sent to 1828 a lot… nothing happened.”

“The year Scorpius should have died.”

Realisation dawns on Harry’s face. “But you changed that.” 

“Right. And 1744… he was sent there _twelve_ times. Why?”

Harry frowns down at the years. “I don’t know. What happened in 1744?”

“We’ll research it.”

_Harry’s foolish, and you’re clever._

Draco shakes away Ron’s warning. Everything will be fine, he tells himself.

And if it’s not, well....

It will be. It _must_ be.

Harry pulls a loose page from the back of the folder. It’s simply titled _Allied Septs._ “Five septs,” Harry murmurs. “They’re sort of… smaller families, aren’t they? Attached to a larger clan.”

“That’s right.”

Harry scans the names. “I don’t know much of my family history, I’m afraid, but some of these names are familiar. Surnames from this area. The Weasleys, the Prewetts.” He turns the page over. _Traitors_ is written on the other side. Four septs are listed, and he reads them aloud. “Nott, Yaxley, Carrow...” He pauses. “Malfoy,” he finishes. 

Draco picks up his father’s notes, still preoccupied with the time-travel dates.“Something happened in 1744.” 

Harry looks up at him. “The Clock-Winder knows,” he says, and Draco nods.

“I feel like Scorpius was… a test,” he says. “I don’t know why. Just a test. A test that my father failed.”

“And you passed.” Harry taps the list of dates Lucius has written down. “And now...”

“And now...” Draco looks down at the paper. “He did manage to put these pieces together, he was figuring it out… and it’s _my_ job to finish what he started.” He pauses, then picks up the paper Lucius titled _The Illusionist._ “Did you read this one?”

Harry frowns at it. “Yes.”

“He was trying to see the true face of the Illusionist. He seemed to believe it was the key to unlocking everything.”

“Draco — ”

“Harry, I need to go back to the Sapphire Suite.”

“No. That’s too dangerous.”

“I _have_ to. If the ghosts are all connected… and my father wrote that it was the key — ”

“No. No, Draco. That room… I hate it, I _hate_ it,” Harry says, and Draco’s taken aback by the vehemence in his voice. “Whatever is in there, it is awful. I know I said we should investigate, but… not like this. We can find another way — ”

“It wants me to go to the cellar. I think it wants me to find something. Something important.”

“Yeah, like your own mortality.”

Draco has one more weapon up his sleeve. If he can’t manipulate Harry’s righteousness, he’ll aim for the hero complex. “Fine. If you won’t help, that’s fine.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “Are you going to sneak off to the Sapphire Suite by yourself?”

“That would be stupid.”

“Right, so you won’t do it. Will you? Draco. _Draco_. Look at me, promise you won’t try anything alone.”

“All right, fine.”

Harry looks at him, then sighs loudly. “We’ll go to the cellar now,” he says. “In the daylight, at least. Surrounded by other people. We’ll see what we can find.”

Draco looks down at his father’s notes again.

_The true face._

* * *

  
  


They return to the castle and go to the kitchens. Mrs Weasley is humming to herself as she rolls out pastry. Neville’s clattering through the courtyard door with scratched forearms and a bucket of brambles.

“Fresh for the pie, Mrs Weasley,” Neville announces, and then he spots Draco and Harry. “Where’re you off to, Harry? Ron’s wanting help with that fence along the orchard.”

“There’s water damage in the cellar, Draco wants me to have a quick look,” Harry says. He’s not the best liar, Draco thinks, but he’s not the worst, and Neville accepts it with a nod. 

They continue onwards. Draco pauses by the buttery door, breathing in the damp air, and then turns to glance over his shoulder at Harry, a sense of déjà vu settling over him like a thick cloak. He remembers eyes glittering beneath amber lights, and a mouth dark and misshapen. 

But it’s only Harry now, looking at him with his curious eyes, and Draco offers him a fleeting smile, trying to inject some false bravado into the situation. 

“Well,” Draco says. “Can’t hear any rattling chains yet.”

Harry doesn’t return Draco’s smile. “We don’t have to go,” he says instead. “We don’t have to look, Draco.”

Draco gets irritated with him then, which is good because it’s better than feeling afraid. “I was the one who suggested this. Don’t patronise me.”

“I wasn’t — ”

“Yes, you were.”

Harry falls silent. Draco gives him another look, then turns back to the corridor ahead. Even in the light of day, it vanishes into complete darkness. There are no windows. He puts a hand on the cool brick wall and steps forward. Cold air rises to greet him. He can hear Harry’s footsteps behind him, soft and muted against the earth floor. 

Soon, the last few rays of light die. He feels his way into the cellar, his foot finding the first step, and he reaches out into the darkness, trying to find the thin cord for the light.

Instead, someone else touches his hand.

Draco gasps and yanks his hand away; the dry and papery fingers, wrapped around his own hand, fall away easily. Draco stands frozen in the dark, his heart pounding, listening, but there’s no noise.

“Harry?” he calls out after a moment.

No answer.

“Harry!” 

Only silence. Harry would answer him, Draco is sure of it. Harry wouldn’t play games; he wouldn’t be so cruel as to play a prank like this on Draco. Not here, in the dark cellar, with only the sound of Draco’s rapid breathing. 

Draco takes a step backwards, nearly falling over the step. He doesn’t dare reach out again; doesn’t dare search for the cord.

An amber glow suddenly swings over his face, followed by, “Oh, Mr Malfoy! You frightened me half to death!”

Draco turns. By the flickering light of an upheld lantern, he can see the face of a young woman, barely past childhood. She’s dressed in a plain linen dress, and a modesty cloth is tucked around her neck. She looks vaguely familiar.

Draco’s heart sinks. He knows whose hand touched him.

“What are you doing down here with no light, Mr Malfoy?” the woman asks, holding her own lantern a little higher. It’s nothing more than a wooden frame with a single candle wedged inside. 

“I was… looking for something.”

A look of understanding crosses the woman’s face. “None today, Mr Malfoy,” she says, lowering her voice to a whisper.

“None...?”

She shakes her head. “No messages from _him_.”

“Oh.”

“Best be on your way now, Mr Malfoy, afore they notice you’re not there. Try tomorrow. He’s coming back from Agsworth then, I’m sure he’ll want to write you something.”

“Of course.” Draco nods, then realises she’s waiting for him to leave. He nods again, then turns and makes his way down the corridor. There’s more daylight here; the buttery’s door is wide open, with an old man dressed in rags standing by it, a wooden bowl held out. A woman with an apron tied over her dress is fetching a lump of bread for him. She takes no notice of Draco, too involved in her task, but the man looks directly at Draco just for a moment. His blue eyes twinkle, and Draco stops. Dumbledore.

But then the woman moves forward, blocking Draco’s view, and after a moment he turns away. He has the feeling he’s not here for Dumbledore.

The kitchens are busier than he’s ever seen. Barefoot servants are scurrying around, scrubbing and stirring and singing. The entire room is like a furnace, with fireplaces burning bright. Great iron pots sit over the flames; a slaughtered sheep has been dumped on a table in the corner, its head lolling over the edge. Nobody pays it any mind. 

Draco catches sight of a couple of servants staring at him curiously, and he abruptly turns on his heel and goes out the door, into the hallway. All is quiet out here. The hallway leads directly to the foyer, and the Great Hall; it seems the dining room, parlour, and cloak-room haven’t yet been built. The Great Hall is empty apart from two young men, complaining as they fork fresh straw over the floor.

“All this work for a welcoming party! We don’t even know if they’ll bear good news.”

“Of course it will be good news.” The other man pauses halfway through dumping another pitchfork of straw onto the floor, then adds slyly, “Good news for _some_ of us.”

His colleague gives him a thin-lipped look. “Best not speak too loudly of _that_.”

Draco stays in the shadows by the doorway, and steals away when the men return to their work. He wanders the empty halls and rooms. The castle is smaller, and stripped bare; the furniture is simple, hewn from wood or occasionally carved from stone. The suites are here, but the elegant decor is not. The Emerald Suite has a brown horse-hair rug and a bed with a lumpy straw mattress. The Sapphire Suite doesn’t have the slightest hint of its navy-and-silver theme. The rooms are empty, and Draco sees hardly anyone except a few busy servants. When he steps into the Amber Suite, he startles the young servant he saw earlier; she’s by the bookshelf, which is lined with a few hand-stitched tomes. 

“Oh, Mr Malfoy! Second time you’ve frightened me half to death. Which I suppose means I _am_ dead.” She laughs, slightly uneasily, and Draco spots a little slip of paper in her hand. It disappears up her sleeve quite deftly. 

“Reading the books?”

She laughs again, but it’s still uneasy and she shifts her weight from one foot to another. “No need to be unkind. The pictures are good enough, aren’t they?”

She can’t read, Draco realises. “My apologies,” he says. 

She offers him a smile, then ducks her head in polite deference and leaves. Draco waits a moment, then crosses the floor and picks up the books, turning the pages. He finds nothing.

_No messages, Mr Malfoy._

  
  


* * *

  
  


Harry and Draco spend the afternoon in the library, consulting book after book. Harry keeps re-reading Draco’s notes over and over.

“A lantern,” he mutters, tapping a pen against the notebook. “With a wooden frame… straw mattresses… well, I suppose it sounds earlier than the turn of the century.”

“When were gas lights invented?”

Harry groans and leans back against a kickstool, closing his eyes. “Your father narrowed it down to exact years. _How_ did he do that?”

“Research.” Draco pulls another book off the shelf. 

Harry sits up abruptly. “Hermione.”

“What?”

“Smartest person I know. She’s read every book in this castle. If anyone can help us, it’ll be her.”

Draco opens his mouth, then closes it. After a moment, he says, “She won’t believe me.” There’s no way, he thinks, he’s going to try to explain this to no-nonsense Hermione. 

“Yes, she will. She’s worked in this castle for years. She knows it.”

Draco looks down at the book in his hands. “I think it would be better if we just kept it to ourselves.”

“You _can_ ask for help, you know. You don’t have to do everything alone.”

Draco glances up. “I’m _not_ doing everything alone,” he retorts, covering up his annoyance at the fact Harry’s yet again proven he knows Draco too well. “I’ve got _you,_ haven’t I?”

But his sharp retort, intended to needle, doesn’t change Harry’s earnest expression. “Yes, you have,” he says.

Draco looks away again, to the book, though he doesn’t register any of the words. “All right,” he says instead, and he closes his book and stands up. “Let’s go to Hermione.”

He waits for a triumphant expression, but Harry only smiles at him.

* * *

  
  


“The Clock-Winder,” Hermione says slowly, tapping a pen against the notebook. She’s sitting in the front parlour, a pile of folders perched on her knees, another pen tucked forgotten behind her ear. “You know, Ron mentioned him once.”

“Let’s go elsewhere,” Harry mutters. “They don’t like it when you talk about them.”

Hermione ignores him. “Just once. Never give permission, he said. Have you asked him about it? He might know something.”

“Ron doesn’t like talking about them,” Harry says. “And we shouldn’t either. You know — ”

Hermione waves him away. “Fine. Let’s talk about the incident, then.” She flips the notebook open and peers at the pages. “Straw mattresses, wooden lanterns — I’m _amazed_ this castle didn’t burn down. Straw lining the floors… sounds around the eighteenth century, if not earlier. You’ve written here, Draco, that the dining room didn’t exist?”

“No, nor the parlour or cloak-room.”

“Yes, the cloak room was added during the great rebuild of 1780. So it must have been before then. You mentioned Agsworth — the village itself didn’t really start to form until around 1740. So we can narrow it down to those forty years.” She glances up and looks around the room, as if searching for an answer written on the walls. But there’s only the portraits, of the Mother smiling with her sprig of lavender, and Scorpius with his beagle, and Lucius stern-faced with his silver cane. Hermione surveys each portrait for a moment, then says suddenly, “Was anyone wearing tartan? You described the style of the clothes, but not really the patterns.”

Draco searches his memories. “The servant, she wore — ”

“No, not interested in her. The women could wear a bit of tartan, but the men, the rules were _very_ strict… what were the men wearing?”

Draco pauses. “There were two men in the Great Hall… they were wearing swathes of tartan — ”

“The plaid, it was called. Part of the Highland dress. Banned in 1746. I’d say you were taken back to a time between 1740 and 1746.” Hermione sits back, giving a firm nod to herself. 

Harry grins at Draco. “Told you. She’s _smart_.”

“No, I just happen to read,” Hermione says, smoothing down her dress, but Draco catches the pleased look on her face. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more precise.”

Draco thinks of his father’s own notes. _1744_ , written over and over. “Why was Highland dress banned in 1746?”

“Oh, you know. The Jacobite uprisings and all that. The Scottish clans who participated often wore their traditional Highland dress, so the British throne banned such clothing. Any Scottish man or boy caught wearing the Highland dress would be imprisoned for the first offence, and transported overseas to a plantation for the second offence. It’s… why are you two looking at each other like that?”

“Just realised something, that’s all,” Harry says, tearing his gaze away from Draco. “Not all clans joined the uprisings, did they? And even within the clans themselves… perhaps there was disagreement.”

Hermione nods. “Some septs supported the Jacobite uprisings, others thought it was a lost cause.”

_Your father’s been doing a bit of whispering in a few listening ears. We’ll get old McErler to change his mind about the war. Pick the right side._

“Well, thank you,” Draco says, rising from the chair.

 _Traitors_.

He’s beginning to understand exactly what his father was researching.

* * *

Draco spends the next few days re-reading his father’s notes. Lucius has written a little profile for each inhabitant of the castle. The Lovers seem the most shrouded by mystery; Lucius’s main line of inquiry, involving The Reader, had evidently dried up. But The Illusionist comes a close second for mystery. _I must see its true face,_ Lucius has written. _I must ignore the distractions and disguises._

But for Draco, knowing what he must do, and actually _doing_ it, are two vastly different concepts. He’d spoken so firmly to Harry – _I must go back to the Sapphire Suite_ — yet he finds his courage crumbling. He’s never been the brave one, he thinks miserably. 

So he roams the castle, and visits the village, and explores the woods, and spends his time avoiding thinking about the inevitable. On a particularly moody spring day, he decides to set out with a pair of binoculars and see if he can find Luna’s favourite bird: the yellow-browed warbler. He leaves the castle, passing through the great doors, and as soon as he does so, he feels a firm hand against his back, and he’s startled enough to stumble forward. He trips and falls down the steps, tumbling over the sun-warmed stone, and comes to a rest on the gravel. He gets to his feet slowly, brushing away the gravel. He knows already. His perspective is all wrong again. 

“Are you all right?”

He glances up at Harry. Little Harry, eleven years old, with a stick in each hand. He’s peering at Draco. The sun is mild, the air crisp, and the day is new. It’s a summer morning somewhere in Draco’s childhood.

“Yes,” Draco says, glancing over his shoulder and scowling at the doors. 

“Oh,” Harry says, and then after a moment he holds out one of the sticks. “Found a good walking stick for you. So we can go walking all around the river today.”

_You never stopped looking for them._

Draco accepts the stick. Harry beams at him.

They set off together. Harry is chatty and full of good news. He found a bird’s nest by the old mill, he says, and he thinks the eggs might hatch any day now. He heard the frogs by the pond yesterday — perhaps they’ll go there this afternoon, and see if they can catch one. They could feed the ducks too, if Draco can filch a loaf of stale bread from the kitchens. And he’s had a very good think about the fishing rods they made yesterday, and thinks it might work better today if they find _proper_ sticks. Not skinny little twigs. A branch that can handle a large and very angry trout. 

The castle soon disappears. They walk deeper and deeper into the woods, following the turns of the river. Harry hums to himself. A bee follows them for a while until it pauses by the blooming heather. Draco slips on some moss growing over the riverbank stones, and Harry catches ahold of him easily, and even when Draco’s righted himself, Harry doesn’t let go. They keep holding hands, walking along, and Harry keeps humming to himself and pointing out things. A dragonfly, a patch of wild violets, amber sap trickling from a tree branch.

They’ve done this hundreds of times, Draco suddenly thinks. Walked along the river, holding hands.

He’d had the feeling, earlier, that he’d hidden Harry. Given him a different name and hidden him. But that’s not right. Harry had slept in the Ruby Suite, and had dinners at the castle, and showed up every day to play with Draco. He’d given Harry a false name, but he hadn’t hidden him.

No. He’d been hiding something else.

“What’s wrong?”

Draco looks up. He’s let go of Harry’s hand. Harry’s a few steps ahead of him, his brow crinkled in confusion.

“Nothing,” Draco says at last. “I just… I have to go.”

“Go? Where?”

“To my time. I don’t belong here.”

Harry looks at him, then sadness settles into his expression. “It’s happened again,” he says. “You’re not _my_ Draco.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Harry says, and Draco can see him trying to be brave. “You can still stay.”

“Thank you,” Draco says, “but I have to go.”

Harry says nothing. The sunlight dapples through the trees. The river babbles on, soft and constant. A butterfly flits past, pausing to rest delicately on Draco’s forearm for just a moment before dancing away through the still summer air. Draco watches it, then looks back ahead.

“Harry,” he begins, then he stops.

He’s speaking to nobody. There’s a chill in the air now. The air is darkening, becoming heavy with the promise of rain.

It’s a gloomy and overcast day, and he is alone again.

* * *

That night, Draco stares up at the canopy over his bed.

The memories rush through him like a freight train. He remembers it now. He remembers it. One summer. Just one. The summer he was eleven, and so excited because Narcissa said they were all going to live at Agsworth. _Your father misses you too much_ , she’d told Draco, smiling and bright, she was so happy. And Draco was so happy.

The long train trip. The castle. A new playground of stone and oak and glass. Secret passageways, ancient books, even a suit of armour in the foyer. Draco had loved it all.

And then a boy in the cemetery, smiling at him. Walking by the river. Footsteps, quick and light, laughing, sneaking into the kitchens to steal biscuits, McGonagall’s stern face, books, turning pages, that stupid hedgehog story — _you always pick that one_ — whispering under the courage of darkness, bedcovers pulled up, holding hands, and then a bright summer day, the smell of dry grass, the bees humming nearby, lips brushing in a clumsy first kiss, Harry blushing, and then suddenly shouting. The moment shattered. His father’s loud footsteps, his face filled with terrifying fury – 

And then Lucius had arrived, seizing Harry by the collar and dragging him away, shouting at him.

“ _You stay away from my son, do you hear me? You stay away! If I see you on these grounds again, boy, you’ll be sorry you ever set foot here! You hear me? Do you hear me?”_

Draco had never seen his father like that before, all composure lost, his face red and teeth gritted, the words spat from between them like poison, dragging Harry away. Harry had made choking noises and tried to wriggle from Lucius’s iron grip, his collar twisting round his neck, and Draco had run forward to yank at his father’s white-knuckled hands.

“ _Stop it! Leave him alone, you’re hurting him — ”_

And then Lucius tossed Harry upon the ground as though he were nothing but unwanted rubbish. Harry had scrambled away, gasping for air, and then glanced once — wide-eyed and full of terror — at Draco, before getting up and racing away, vanishing into the field.

And then it was all over. No lazy summer days. No castle to explore. No whispered words, no stories. Draco was sent straight back to Gloucestershire the very next day. He’d cried for the entire journey, cried and cried. His mother had sat beside him, stone-faced, unmoving. 

And Lucius had stayed at Agsworth.

By himself.

“Draco.”

Draco rolls over and stares into the darkness. He ignores the whisper coming from the Sapphire Suite.

Not tonight, he thinks.

He falls asleep eventually, listening to his dead mother’s voice call out to him.

* * *

The fog comes rolling in the next night. It comes nearly every night, Hermione tells him as she ticks off a list of things in the pantry.

“Course, it’s spring, weather’s damp,” Mrs Weasley calls from the kitchen counter, where she’s vigorously harassing a pie crust. “Of course the fog will be coming up often.”

But Ron, spraying some oil in the hinge of the courtyard door, mutters, “It’s looking for someone.”

Harry doesn’t stay. After Mrs Weasley finishes making the early dinner, he leaves with her, but Draco puts a hand on his arm as he’s going out the door with the car keys, and says, “You will come back if you’ve forgotten something, won’t you?”

Harry hesitates, then says, “Yes, I will.”

He departs. Draco doesn’t miss the way Ron watches him leave, as though expecting Harry to suddenly turn the car around and return to the castle.

“I suppose we ought to leave too,” Hermione announces, shooing Ron out the door. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Draco.”

Draco goes to the window and twitches aside the lace curtain, watching them leave. They walk close together, vanishing into the twilight. Going home. 

He lets go of the curtain and takes a step back. A clock ticks in the corner, neatly slicing each second away. Somewhere, a wooden beam creaks and settles. 

Draco goes to his room and sits on the edge of his bed.

And waits.

* * *

The ghost of the Sapphire Suite is clever; it seems to learn from each interaction it watches. It calls out in Harry’s voice, small and afraid.

“Draco? Draco.”

Draco waits. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Draco says to the voice. He wonders which conversation the ghost has stolen this time. It will lure him to the room, he thinks. It’s like a meal, really. Start with something small. A little appetiser, to draw the guests into the dining room. Then something a little stronger. A little richer. Until the feast is finally served.

“Go where?”

“Nowhere. I’m right here.” Draco stands up, moving towards the door.

“It’s happened again. You’re not _my_ Draco.”

Draco pauses then, mid-step.

And then fury overtakes his fear.

How _dare_ it. How dare it dig through his memories, his personal moments, and drag _that_ from his mind. That moment. How _dare_ it use that against him. He crosses the room in a few easy strides, goes into the hallway, then wrenches open the door to the Sapphire Suite.

“What do you want?” he snarls, then stops.

The room is empty and cold. There’s no enchanted fire dancing in the hearth, no smiling illusion waiting to greet him. Draco glances over his shoulder, into the dark hallway, then steps forward.

“Well? I’m here, right where you want me.”

His voice echoes once, then fades into the furnishings. It’s clever, Draco thinks. Too clever. Where’s it hiding? He takes another step into the room, and another, and then slowly goes over to the bed and touches the smooth covers, half-expecting a figure to rise from it, or a hand to suddenly dart out from beneath the bed.

“I’m here,” Draco repeats, but now his voice sounds softer, more uncertain. He tries again. “I’m here.”

There’s nothing but silence. 

Clever. It’s clever.

Draco looks over his shoulder, waiting for the door to slam shut, trapping him in the room. But it stays where it is, half-open. The moonlight pours through the open curtains, steeping the room in shadows. Draco circles the room twice, reaching out and letting his hand trail along the surfaces. The chairs, the bed, the desk. 

Nothing. 

He waits in the silence, then takes a step towards the door. Nothing tries to stop him. He takes another step, and then another, and finally leaves, entering the hallway. After another moment, he finally returns to his room. It’s exactly how he left it. The book on his bed, set aside. The lamp casting a glow. The rumpled bedcovers. Draco walks over to the bed, then pauses. Yet the silence continues. He checks beneath his bed, feeling foolish as he does so, and then checks the sitting room.

Nothing.

Draco hesitates by the window, then checks it’s closed, feeling the cold metal of the latch. Closed and locked. He lifts his gaze, looking into the darkness.

There’s something white. It gleams in the night, and Draco stares down at it, trying to figure it out. It’s on the driveway, he thinks, just sitting there, large and...

Harry’s car.

Harry came back.

Draco straightens up, his breath ghosting over the cool glass. 

* * *

“Harry! _Harry!”_

He runs through the hallways, fumbling with every light switch he passes, trying to illuminate every corner of the castle. 

“Harry!”

His voice bounces back to him: _Harry, Harry._ His footsteps echo along the empty staircases as he barrels down them. He checks the kitchens first, but they’re empty. The buttery and pantry are neatly stocked. Mrs Weasley’s set the table for tomorrow, for the staff’s breakfast. He races to the cellar, yanking furiously on the light-cord. It flickers to life, revealing the lines of bottles and nothing else.

Draco turns, his heart pounding, his breathing ragged, glancing wildly around the cellar. He doesn’t know where else to search. It will take him at least half an hour to search the castle from top to bottom. Should he check outside? Dare he? What if Harry’s gone into the fog? What if he’s by the river? There is no Scorpius or Mother this time to protect him. He’s alone.

“Harry!”

No answer yet again. Draco remains where he is, trying to think. Should he call Hermione? Call Neville? Or would that put them in danger too? 

He goes up the stairs, into the kitchen again. The windows are all closed. The courtyard door is closed and locked. After a moment, Draco picks up the phone and dials the extension for the caretaker’s cottage. It rings for a few moments, then someone picks it up.

“Hello?”

Draco pauses. “Harry?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“What? Why are you… I saw your car here, and I thought… you’re at the caretaker’s cottage?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? It’s — it’s midnight, what are you doing there?” Draco asks.

A long pause. “I thought you’d left.”

“What? No, I’m… I’m here. At the castle.”

“Where?”

“I’m in the kitchen.”

Another long pause. Draco waits, his hand gripping the receiver so tightly that he thinks he might break it. After a moment, a feeling of dread begins to creep up. “Harry?” he says. “Harry. Is that you? Tell me it’s you. _Tell_ me.”

Another silence. “I’m going to find you,” Harry says. “Stay where you are — ”

Draco hangs up abruptly, turning away from the phone, and looks across the kitchen. The light reflects off the tiles, the glasses, the silver cutlery set out on the table. After a moment, Draco goes to the hallway door and opens it, setting off down the hallway. He needs to leave, he thinks, he can’t stay there, he doesn’t know why, only that something awful might happen if he stays...

He steps into the cloak room, if only because it’s small and narrow and bare, impossible for someone to hide in the shadows, and he feels like a child again, sitting in the corner of an empty room, eyes wide, staring into the darkness and waiting for the monsters to materialise. After a long moment, Draco feels along the wall and pushes hard on the panel. It springs open. He sits there, caught in indecision, and then crawls into the musty, pitch-black passageway. 

He feels his way along the walls, his fingertips brushing dust and dead spiders, shuffling through the narrow space. He can hear the phone somewhere in the castle, ringing and ringing. He keeps moving forward until he reaches a dead end, then feels around.

There’s a faint click and a panel opens up. Light pours into the passageway. Draco can’t tell if it’s just the light of the full moon, or something else. A candle, lit and waiting for him? Harry standing there with a relieved look, a torch in one hand?

Draco wriggles his way into the room. There’s no artificial light. Only the moon, shining through the skylight overhead. He’s in the Great Hall.

It’s empty save for one person. Harry is sitting at one of the tables, his back to Draco, still and silent.

“Harry?”

Harry begins to turn his head. It’s like the painting, Draco thinks distantly. The Mother, turning her head so slowly that it’s impossible to tell what he would see once she faced him. He can see the nape of Harry’s neck, smooth and tanned from all the outdoor work. The curve of his ear. The line of his jaw.

“You don’t want to see it, Draco.”

He turns. Dumbledore stands behind him, a hand outstretched. Draco looks at him and hesitates just for a second.

Then he accepts Dumbledore’s hand.

* * *

Dumbledore vanishes, and Draco has a vague feeling of horror and betrayal — he’s still standing here, in the dark Great Hall, he’s been left here with a monster — but then he looks up, and sees the starless ceiling. No glass. Only the wooden beams.

“You’re going to end up dead. We’ll all end up dead.”

Draco drops his gaze. There’s a man, tall and broad-shouldered, his mouth set in stern expression that suddenly reminds Draco all too much of his father. “Dead?” he echoes, and the man steps towards him.

“Yes, Alexander. Dead.”

 _Alexander_. Draco takes a step back from the man. There’s nobody else in the hall. It’s dark and quiet. The straw absorbs his footsteps.

“You’ve heard him,” the man continues, gesturing angrily towards the doorway. “If McErler has his way, he’ll lead us all into battle. A battle none of us want to fight. None of us can change his mind. He’s got these ideas, these _obsessions_ , with loyalty, and keeping oaths. And it’s led him here. To the losing side of the battlefield. It’s up to you now.”

“You want me to change his mind?” Draco asks, feeling the edge of one of the great tables against his legs. He doesn’t like the look of this man.

“Don’t be a fool. McErler won’t listen to me, his closest advisor, why would he listen to _you_? But I know you’re close to his son. Whisper in James’s ear. Convince him to choose the right side, and make his father see reason.”

“Whisper in his ear,” Draco repeats, glancing over his shoulder. He can’t properly concentrate on the conversation. Somewhere, in his timeline, Harry needs his help.

“Yes,” the man says with agitation. “And I _don’t_ want to hear your excuses this time. Try harder. James _will_ listen to you. He has plenty of influence over his father. Use it.”

“I will.”

“Good.” The man pauses and tilts his head, listening to footsteps in the distance, then gives Draco another thin-lipped look before departing. 

Draco waits. Whatever Dumbledore wanted to show him, he thinks, it’s surely done now. He’ll go back to the right time. He _has_ to. He needs to help Harry.

But he doesn’t.

After a long moment, he crosses the floor and leaves the Great Hall. It’s busier than his last visit to this particular time, but not a rush of activity. People wander the hallways, paying him no particular mind. He sees the young servant girl —The Reader — leaving the kitchens with an ewer, and she winks at him. Flirting, Draco thinks, but then he suddenly remembers the books and he goes upstairs, to the empty Amber Suite, and haphazardly rushes through the books lining the shelves. Whatever task he’s supposed to do, he needs to finish it as soon as possible. 

He finds a slip of paper tucked into the pages of a handwritten book.

_Meet me at midnight, at our usual place._

* * *

Overhead, the moon is high, and the stars are crisp against the sky. Draco hurries onwards, his breath rising silver in the winter air, and he gathers the plaid around himself as he heads towards the river. He doesn’t know where he’s going — how far along the river? Perhaps by the old mill, he thinks, and then he realises belatedly the mill probably hasn’t even been built yet. He continues on, grateful for the generous light of the full moon, and winces as undergrowth scratches at his skin. His shoes are thin, made of leather, and the soles offer little protection against any sharp rocks underfoot. 

“You all right? Thought it was a wild grice crashing through the forest,” an amused voice says, and Draco startles. 

There’s a dark-haired man standing by the river, smiling at him. He’s oddly familiar and Draco suddenly remembers the man in the Great Hall, telling him, _Drunk already? Don’t spoil the night, Alexander._

“James,” Draco says, and the man gives him a soft look, full of fondness, and Draco says, “Oh,” because he understands now.

The Lovers.

“Kept me waiting again,” James says, though he doesn’t sound annoyed. 

“I… I was talking to someone.”

James’s smile fades then. “I can guess. Your father?”

Draco thinks of the man, stern-faced and angry. “Yes,” he says slowly. “Yes, it was.”

“We’re not talking about this again. I stand by my father’s decision. It’s the _right_ decision. To honour the loyalties of our forefathers, and stand together to — ”

“He said people were going to die,” Draco says, suddenly thinking perhaps this is what Dumbledore wants him to do. Change James’s mind. Change history. “My father said we’d all die. That _I’d_ die.”

“That’s what happens during a war, Alexander.” James turns away. “We have to make sacrifices.”

“Do _you_ want to die?”

“I want to see the rightful ruler return to the throne. We’re readying for war, whether you like it or not. And my father is the chief of the clan, _not_ yours, so your opinion hardly matters.” He pauses, then adds, “A fact of which I sometimes think your father needs reminding.”

Draco says nothing. It seems James’s mind is set in stone. How could he possibly change it? He shouldn’t have taken Dumbledore’s hand, he thinks with sudden misery, despite the respite it seemed to offer. Somewhere, more than two hundred years in the future, Harry needs him. He paces around the clearing, then sits down on a fallen tree and buries his face in his hands, feeling utter despair. _How_ is he supposed to fix all of this? 

A hand touches his shoulder; he jumps, and James sighs.

“You’ve a lot weighing on your mind tonight. I can tell.”

Draco lifts his head, staring at the river ahead. It rushes darkly over the stones. Onwards, onwards. Never stopping. Throughout the centuries, it’s the only thing that remains the same. 

“I’m sorry,” James adds after a moment, sitting next to Draco. He sits too close, pressing their legs together, but Draco doesn’t move away. Alexander wouldn’t move away, he thinks.

“So am I,” Draco says, and he means it. “I wish things could have been different for you and him.”

James tilts his head, confused. “Me and who?”

Draco jumps to his feet as the river suddenly rushes up over the banks, swirling around him, and when he next looks up, he realises he’s alone. James has vanished. The fallen tree is gone. The river is heavy with spring rain, rushing around him icy-cold. The fog is hanging so heavy in the air that it feels like he’s breathing in water.

“Harry?” Draco calls out, fighting the panic crawling up his throat. He’s in the river. It’s midnight, and the fog is here, and he’s in the river. “Harry!” He scrambles backwards, his hands sinking into the soft earth. The fog clings to him, chokes him, and he struggles to draw breath.

_Meet me by the river._

Draco reaches out, trying to grasp the white, smooth trunk of a birch tree and haul himself up. His feet are sinking into the mud. He can hear something splashing in the river behind him. 

_Meet me..._

He fastens his hand around the trunk, but it seems to change beneath his hands. The pale colour stays, but the bark becomes soft and thin, and part of it comes away in his hands, and then he’s looking at a dead body, fat with bloat, white and soft with river rot, and it wears his father’s face, and Draco lets go with a cry of horror and tumbles backwards, down the bank and into the river.

 _Another Malfoy,_ the river seems to say as it rushes icy cold over him. _Another Malfoy..._

Draco struggles weakly, his pyjamas soaked and weighing him down like stones. There’s a man walking towards him, shrouded in shadow, and even when he’s a mere step away, he is still nothing but darkness. He leans down, and he stinks of the river, peaty and soft, and beneath it is the very faint reek of decay.

_Another Malfoy, come to meet me by the river._

And then there’s suddenly voices shouting out, and torchlight sluicing across the river, and then the man has vanished.

“Draco! _Draco!”_

He drags himself weakly to the riverbank, trying to call out, but his voice has died. There’s quick footsteps, sticks crunching, twigs snapping, leaves rustling, and it suddenly makes Draco aware of how silent it had been. A torch beam lands on his face, and then shifts away again, and never in his life has Draco been so relieved to see Ron’s freckled face.

“Found him! Over here, Nev!”

Neville rushes over, falling over several logs by the sound of things, and crouches beside Ron. They grab Draco beneath his arms and haul him up the steep bank with difficulty.

“You all right, mate?” Ron asks him, worry edging his voice.

“He’s soaked,” Neville says, and Draco doesn’t have the strength to lift his head but he can feel them looking at each other, having another one of those invisible conversations.

“We need to get him back to the castle now.”

“I’ll run back and fetch him a coat,” Neville says, rising to his feet.

“No.” Ron’s voice is firm. “We stick together. Can you walk, Draco?”

 _One’s fun. Two’s trouble._ He shivers violently.

“He’s in shock. Come on, Nev. You go under his right arm, I’ll go under his left. Count of three — ”

They heave him to his feet, and help him walk, step by slow step. 

“Did you see his neck?” Neville whispers at some point.

“Shut up,” Ron whispers back. 

They drag Draco into the first building they reach: the little caretaker cottage. Neville rushes to stoke the fire. Draco undresses with numb, clumsy fingers; Ron drapes a dry, warm coat over him and helps him into the bed, pulling the blankets high.

“Have a kip,” he says. “You need it.”

He’s right. Draco feels exhausted suddenly. As he closes his eyes, he catches drifts of conversation.

“He’s bloody lucky we found him!” Neville sounds shaken. 

“Wasn’t luck. It was Harry.”

“Yes, how _did_ he do that?”

“I don’t know. Bloody miracle.”

Sleep claims Draco before he can hear the rest of the conversation.


	8. The Father

When Draco wakes next, the cottage is empty except for Mrs Weasley, humming to herself as she makes a pot of tea. When she sees Draco sitting up, she grimaces.

“Nasty bruises, Draco. Never mind. Few days’ rest, you’ll be feeling yourself again.”

“Where’s Harry?” His voice sounds thin and scratchy, barely audible. It hurts to speak. 

Mrs Weasley looks surprised. “He’s at home, of course.”

“Is he all right?”

“Perfectly. Why wouldn’t he be? Fresh set of clothes by the foot of the bed,” Mrs Weasley adds helpfully as Draco climbs out of the bed only to discover he’s nearly naked. 

He dresses. Thin daylight streams through the window, and judging by the height of the sun, it’s early afternoon. He leaves the cottage plied with pastries and a mug of tea, unable to successfully reject Mrs Weasley’s offerings. 

The castle grounds are quiet. Ron and Neville are trying to hang a gate; when they see him, they both pause in their work. 

“All right?” Ron asks.

“Fine.” His voice is still far too hoarse.

They nod and return to their work, though he can feel their eyes on him. When he steps inside the castle, Hermione is waiting for him. She holds a folder to her chest like a shield, a pen ready in one hand. About to do battle, Draco thinks, and he’s right.

“I’ve just been calling a few people, Mr Malfoy,” Hermione says. “I called your Aunt Andromeda, she’s just _lovely._ Stayed here for a while and she was _so_ kind. It was wonderful to speak to her again. I mentioned that you were in need of some extra rest, and it’s no problem for you to have another holiday. Andromeda said you’re perfectly fine to return to Gloucestershire — ”

“What?” Draco’s furious, but his small, scratchy voice only makes him sound a little confused, and he hates that. “I’ve only just returned — ”

“I understand, but you were found in quite a state last night, and I do believe some extra rest — ”

“No. I’m not going anywhere. Cancel the plans.”

“Mr Malfoy, I really _do_ think that it’s in your best interests to — ”

“I’m not going!” The words come out as faint whispers. 

Hermione clears her throat and pushes her hair behind her ear, inadvertently dislodging a forgotten pencil. “Mr Malfoy. I must speak plainly now. This castle is dangerous. You _must_ leave. There are things here… beings who might wish harm upon you — ”

“I’m well aware. I’m staying. I am the master of the house, and I am staying. Is that understood?”

Hermione opens and closes her mouth several times, then at last nods. “I wish I could convince you otherwise,” she says stiffly. “I only have your best interests in mind.”

“Your concern is noted.”

Hermione nods again and turns away, briskly walking toward the kitchen, but Draco knows she’s upset. He inwardly sighs and goes instead to his rooms, and has a long, hot shower to get rid of the muddy river-smell. As he dresses again afterwards, he frowns at the bruises on his neck. They bloom, purple as heather, across his skin, and he can clearly see each one is the shape of a finger. Two thumb-prints mark the soft underside of his jaw. 

Draco turns his collar up and returns downstairs.

* * *

He goes to the village, to the little cottage perched on the edge of a winding road. Harry opens the door and looks greatly relieved to see him.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” he says, stepping forward and catching Draco by surprise with a brief hug. “Hermione wouldn’t let me go to work today. Got to follow orders, I suppose.” He steps back and offers a tepid smile.

Draco doesn’t return it. “Last time I checked, it was my signature on Hermione’s employment forms.”

“Christ, your voice,” Harry blurts out, then he looks abashed. “Sorry.”

“Don’t fuss.”

“Don’t _fuss?_ Don’t — do you _know_ how — “ Harry cuts himself off, then takes a deep breath. “Last night — ”

“Where were you?”

“I came back, I got Hermione and Ron and Neville, like you said. We ran to the river — ”

“What do you mean, like I said?”

Harry looks at him, then away. “Never mind. Draco, listen. Hermione’s got a point. She’s worried about you.”

“No. No, I’m not leaving! I saw a — a moment last night, I figured something out — ”

Harry backs away, shaking his head. “This is getting dangerous. You nearly… I don’t know what would’ve happened last night if I hadn’t...” He trails off. “Draco, I think maybe… maybe you _should_ go back to Wiltshire. Maybe — ”

“Are you _kidding?_ What happened to ‘don’t be a coward’ and ‘you can’t just run away’ and — ”

“I was wrong, okay! I was _wrong_ , you need to leave, this is getting too — it’s too much — do you _want_ to die?”

Draco looks at him and laughs. The noise sounds more like a raspy wheeze. “Sometimes we have to make sacrifices,” he says, and Harry looks at him as if he’s mad.

“Is that some kind of joke? What’s so funny?”

Draco scrapes together his composure. “I’m sorry.”

Harry looks at him and then sighs. “So am I. Look, I just think… you _wanted_ to leave, not so long ago. What’s changed?”

“You want to know why Lucius couldn’t solve the mystery of the Lovers?”

Harry looks at him suspiciously. “No.”

“Because he was looking for a man and a woman.”

Harry pauses, then says, “Ah.”

“Go put the kettle on. I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

Harry vanishes to the kitchen.

* * *

By the time he returns to the castle with Harry, the sun is setting and Hermione is standing by the front steps like a sentry.

“Harry, I thought we agreed it would be best if you stayed home,” she begins, but Draco interrupts.

“He’s here as my guest.”

He can see the intense struggle in Hermione’s eyes. Dare she step out of place and become — the horror of all horrors — _unprofessional_? She glances at Harry, then says, “Harry isn’t feeling well, he ought to go home and rest. Have a whole week off.”

“He’s not here as an employee, he’s here as my guest. Could you ask Ron to make up the Ruby Suite?”

Hermione turns and gives Harry a look of despair. “Harry,” she says, a plea, and he looks sympathetic. For a moment, Draco thinks he’ll back down and agree to return home.

But instead he says, “I’m sorry, Hermione. But Draco’s figured out a few things, and… well. I’m going to help him get to the end of this.”

“You might not get to the end,” Hermione says, and her disapproving frown is beginning to tremble a bit. Draco tactfully goes inside, but waits just inside the door and shamelessly eavesdrops. “You promised,” Hermione says after a moment, sounding tearful. “You _promised_ , Harry — ”

“He’s found out something, Hermione, we’re trying to — ”

“You _promised._ You said you’d stay away. You said you wouldn’t answer its call — ”

“And I haven’t answered its call. But now… I think it’s time,” Harry says.

“I’m going to find you,” Hermione says, and she’s crying quietly now. “I’m going to find you in the river.”

“You won’t.”

“Don’t say that, Harry. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

There’s a rustle of clothing — they’re hugging, Draco thinks — and then Harry steps inside. He offers Draco an easy smile and says, “Everything will be alright.”

It’s a lie. Harry knows it, and Draco knows it.

But they’re both in too deep now, he thinks.

They just have to make sure their heads stay above the water.

* * *

Dinner is a subdued affair. It’s served early, and Draco abandons the formal dining room for the kitchens. He joins the staff at their table, and Mrs Weasley immediately stands to serve him; he waves her away. 

“Please don’t,” he says, picking up the wine bottle from the serving tray and pouring his own glass. “Sit down and eat, Mrs Weasley.”

“Oh, you’re a dear,” she says, sitting down again. 

Ron eyes Draco from across the table, then says, “Made up the Ruby Suite.”

“Thank you.” Draco waits for the joke about a mint on the pillow, or if Harry would like for his cravat to be ironed. But instead Ron gives Draco another long, measured look.

“I saw him once,” Ron says.

“Hm?”

“The Clock-Winder.”

Mrs Weasley pauses. Hermione puts her fork down.

“Just once. I trespassed when I was about seventeen. Came up here to steal some apples.”

“Ronald Weasley!” Mrs Weasley says, aghast. “I did _not_ raise a thief!”

“Lucius caught me,” Ron continues. “Knew I was a Weasley. He was _livid_. Asked if I wanted to end up like Fred.”

Mrs Weasley sets her cutlery down, a flush of anger rising in her cheeks. “The disrespect of it — Ron, you should have _told_ me about this — ”

Ron shakes his head. “Didn’t matter. Halfway through lecturing me, he got a funny look on his face. There was an old man walking towards us. Long white beard, eyes blue as a summer sky. Looked harmless enough, but Lucius seemed terrified. Backed away from me. I asked who the old man was, and Lucius asked if I could see him. When I said yes, he told me: that man is called the Clock-Winder. And if he asks for your permission to wind the clocks, you must _never_ give it.”

They are all silent. Even Mrs Weasley seems to have lost her outrage. She stares at Ron, then says, “And then what happened?”

“The old man walked up to us, and reached out and touched Lucius. And he vanished. Just… disappeared, in the blink of an eye. The old man was still standing there, but Lucius was gone. For a moment, I thought the old man would reach out and make me vanish too. But he didn’t. Just turned and wandered away again. I ran home, fast as I could, and never said a word.”

“We shouldn’t talk about it,” Hermione says. “Not here.”

“I think we _should_ talk about it,” Ron says. “I want to give Draco and Harry all the help they can get.”

“Thank you,” Harry says. He’s been very quiet, Draco’s noticed.

Hermione looks at Harry, then hesitates, takes a breath and says, “One’s fun. Two’s trouble. It means that if there’s one person by themselves, then sometimes, the… the castle inhabitants might have a little fun. The person might be found wandering the forest, or by the river with frostbite, or screaming terrified in the cellar. But when there’s a couple… it _loves_ a couple. Certain death every time.” She stops, then clears her throat and adds, “Three’s a crowd. Three or more… that’s too many people. It doesn’t like that. It likes… intimacy.”

 _It_.

Hermione glances at the ceiling, to where the Sapphire Suite lies overhead, then adds — injecting false cheerfulness into her voice, “If you need us, you just let us know. We’ll all come over. We’ll go wake up Nev. Three’s a crowd, so we won’t get… into trouble in the fog. And once we arrive, we’ll find you and make five. A _proper_ crowd.”

There’s suddenly a great crashing noise from overhead, and they all jump. Mrs Weasley stands up and briskly pours herself a sherry.

“That’s enough talk now,” she says. “They don’t like it.”

They fall silent again. 

* * *

Night comes. Everyone leaves. The fog begins rolling in. Draco stands in his father’s room and watches it slowly creep up, smothering the trees, covering the fields, and then drifting over the lake until it’s reached the front steps of the castle.

He lets the curtain fall over the window and turns back to the room. Harry’s rifling through Lucius’s papers, a little frown on his face, and he removes his spectacles to peer closely at the scribbled handwriting. 

“Hm,” Draco says.

“What?”

“Think I like you better with your spectacles on.”

Harry gives him an unimpressed. “No, Draco. You are _not_ flirting with me.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re in the middle of… ghost-hunting,” Harry says helplessly, gesturing at the notes scattered around him. “We have to focus.”

“I wasn’t flirting, anyway. I was making an observation.”

“You forget that I know you.” Harry gives him another look. “Now, focus. The Jacobite uprisings — ”

“You’ve completely killed the mood now.”

“Good,” Harry says crushingly. “Anyway. This castle used to belong to the McErler clan — my ancestors were McErlers, actually. They held the castle until 1744.”

That year. The year Lucius always ended up in. The year Draco suspects he keeps witnessing.

“And something happened,” Draco says. “Some sort of betrayal.”

“Yeah, actually. The McErler clan were Jacobites. They supported Prince Charles’s bid to restore his family to the throne, even if it meant civil war. They sent men to fight. Looks like some of their septs disagreed, though.” Harry taps the paper with the word _Traitors_ written on it.

“And the Malfoy family was one of those septs.”

“Er, yeah,” Harry says apologetically. “The Malfoys, the Carrows, the Yaxleys… they disagreed. A few weeks before the battles truly began, William McErler — that was the clan chief — ”

“ _Ceannard cinnidhm,”_ Draco murmurs.

“Right. The clan chief. He died, and so did his wife. His only child — a son, named… Er, John, I think it says here — ”

“James.”

“Yeah, could be James.” Harry squints at the paper. “He drowned in the river afterwards. The control of Agsworth and its septs passed into the hands of William McErler’s sister, who’d married... a Malfoy. Look, it’s your whole family line!”

Draco frowns. “What about Alexander Malfoy?”

”Er.” Harry flips through the pages. “Died a few days later.”

“How?”

Harry chews his lip. “Drowned as well.”

“His father killed him,” Draco mutters.

“How do you know?”

“I just do.” Draco goes over to _The Bloodlines of The Malfoy Family_ and flips through the pages. “Where are we? John Malfoy, married Margaret McErler...” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Even this castle isn’t rightfully mine.”

“Yours by marriage,” Harry says mildly. “Your ancestors didn’t exactly storm the castle and seize it.”

“They did worse. They married into the family and murdered them.”

Harry looks at him, then down at the book. “Says here three people were hanged for the McErler murders. None of the hanged traitors were Malfoys.”

Draco gives him a withering look. “Of course they weren’t.” He turns back to the window, watching the dark line of the river snake away into the night, and then suddenly feels restless. “Anyway. Let’s talk about something else for a while.”

Harry shrugs. “All right. Shall we go downstairs?”

They go to the Ruby Suite. Ron _has_ put a mint on the pillow, and Harry good-naturedly laughs about it. Draco sprawls across the bed and stares up at the canopy as Harry talks about things. Not about the mystery unraveling before them. About other things, lighter things. He speaks of the home he left behind in Devonshire, and how he thought he knew what a clear night sky looked like until he came back to the highlands.

“Do you miss it?” Draco asks, his eyes half-closed. The canopy is a blur of scarlet and shadow.

“Not really,” Harry says. “I always wanted to come back here, where my parents grew up. A part of me always knew I’d one day return.”

“Why did you leave?”

“My aunt and uncle moved. For my uncle’s new job. And I had to follow.”

Draco hears the creak of the floorboard nearby; the mattress dips as Harry sits on the edge of the bed.

“And you missed the place,” Draco says. 

“I missed the people. Ron, Hermione, Neville… and you.”

Draco closes his eyes. Sunlight. Green leaves, shot with gold. Soft mossy dells, wide meadows. A boy by his side, small and bright-eyed with wonder. “I only visited for a summer. Just one.”

Harry shifts slightly. “You remember?”

“Yes.”

There’s a pause, and then Harry says hesitantly, “I wasn’t sure if you’d remember.”

Draco hears the unasked question, and reaches out blindly until he finds Harry’s hand. “I remember,” he repeats.

Harry says nothing, though he squeezes Draco’s hand once, and Draco eventually falls asleep like that, laying on the bed dreaming of summer.

* * *

Draco wakes some time in the night. He’s on the bed, Harry sleeping beside him. Draco listens to the steady sound of Harry’s breathing, uncertain what woke him so suddenly. Harry’s here, he tells himself. Everything will be fine. He reaches out and touches Harry’s side, reassured to feel the lift and fall of Harry’s ribs as he breathes.

“Draco?” Harry murmurs drowsily.

“Mm.”

“S’all right?”

“Yes.”

Harry shifts, drawing closer to him, and soon slips into sleep, his breathing deepening again. 

Draco stares at the canopy above. He remembers thinking, only a few weeks ago, that he had to be careful not to do anything stupid.

And now, here he is.

He’s done the stupidest thing possible.

After all, history likes to repeat itself.

* * *

Draco wakes first the next morning, and he’s both grateful and disappointed. By the look on Harry’s face as he registers the dawn light, he feels the same.

“Not even a whisper,” Harry says. “Spent the whole night here, fog rolling in — ”

“Two people, Hermione said it _always_ goes after two people — ”

“Exactly. And _nothing._ I slept like a baby, had an amazing night’s sleep,” Harry adds, sounding very peeved about it. 

“Bloody Dumbledore. Probably thinks he’s being funny.”

“It’s not _his_ fault. He doesn’t control them.”

Draco gives him a doubtful look. “I think he’s orchestrating the entire thing.”

Harry gets up and crosses the room, opening the curtains. “Fog’s gone.”

“Well, at this rate,” Draco says lightly, “I think I’ll give up all subtleties and just start camping in the Sapphire Suite.”

Harry glances at him, then says, “You don’t have to — ”

“I do. We’ve talked about this. It’s fine.” Draco offers a casual shrug.

Harry doesn’t accept it. “You’re allowed to be frightened, you know. You can say you don’t want to do it, even though you know you’re _supposed_ to. You can be afraid. Nobody would just walk into that room without hesitation.”

“You would.”

A little crease appears on Harry’s brow. “Is that what you think? That I’m not afraid?”

“I just think perhaps Dumbledore chose the wrong person.” Draco tries to summon a self-deprecating smile. “Can’t help it, I’m afraid. I’ve always been rather… ordinary.” _And this is what you’ve become. A bland and boring man_. “Lacking a spine, some would say.”

The little crease only deepens. “Ordinary,” Harry repeats, sounding a little puzzled. “Remember that time I found you standing in the field, yelling at the sky?”

Draco smiles wryly, thinking Harry’s making a joke about it all, but Harry frowns at him.

“You were frightened, Draco,” he says. “You were _terrified_ of the Clock-Winder. Didn’t want to meet him. But you shouted at him. You _ordered_ to be taken back through time. You told me that if it killed you — if it was the last thing you ever did — you’d do it. Just to save a little boy.” He looks at Draco and shakes his head slowly. “Ordinary,” he mutters. “Ordinary. You _idiot_.”

There’s the sound of doors opening in the distance, and footsteps, and voices. Ron’s arrived, Draco thinks, readying to go from room to room. He thinks of Harry roaming the river, searching for his parents, and Ron coming to the castle day after day, meticulously cleaning each room. _I looked, don’t think I didn’t,_ Ron had told Draco once. _I never stopped looking._

Draco follows Harry’s gaze, to the window, to the river sparkling beneath the sunlight.

It’s time to put an end to it, he thinks. All this suffering.

_It’s a cruel river._

* * *

That afternoon, Hermione asks to speak privately to Draco.

“Of course,” he says, going to the parlour, but she shakes her head.

“In the caretaker’s cottage, if that’s acceptable.”

He gives her a curious look but agrees. Once they arrive there, Hermione fusses about too much with teacups and kettles and biscuits and things, but Draco merely waits, giving her time until she finally sits down at the rickety kitchen table, takes a deep breath, and then says, “If you’re truly determined to… investigate these things, then I think Ron’s right. You _do_ need all the information we have available.”

“You’ve met the Clock-Winder?” Draco says with surprise.

Hermione shakes her head. “No. I’ve only met a handful of the inhabitants. I suppose you can guess which one I know well. I’ve always been a reader. Can’t resist a book.”

Draco straightens up. “The Reader.”

Hermione looks down at her cup of tea, her mouth turned down into a small line. “It was when I worked in the laundries. I don’t know how it happened. I’m a good worker, I truly am, and I’d never shirk my job. And yet… one moment I was collecting linen from the Amber Suite, and the next moment...”

“You were sitting in the window-seat, reading a book.”

Hermione bites her lip and nods slowly. “I don’t even remember the book. Couldn’t tell you a single word. But I got up… it was like a dream. I crossed the room, I wandered out the door… I just kept walking. I couldn’t stop. It was like I was in a daze. I walked past the fields. They looked pretty. I remember thinking how lovely it all was. Past the orchards. Into the woods. Past the old mill. I kept walking and walking. Like I was on a Sunday stroll.”

“And then someone found you, and you woke,” Draco says, familiar with the experience, but Hermione looks up from her tea and shakes her head.

“No. Nobody found me. I walked to the top of a small hill. It was beautiful. The birds were singing. I could see the woods around the foot of the hill, green with spring rain. I could see the wild heather blooming.” Her voice is calm, but she’s holding onto her teacup with white-knuckled hands. “There was a tree on the hill, Mr Malfoy. Large and broad. I always pride myself on my knowledge of things. I read and read. But sometimes… sometimes, we realise we know too much. See, I knew that tree. It’s called a dule tree. Have you heard of a dule tree?”

Draco shakes his head. 

“Dule,” Hermione says. “From the colloquial Latin _dolus_. It means pain, or grief. Sorrow. Distress.” She gazes down at her tea again. “We’d know it today as the gallows tree.”

Draco doesn’t speak. Hermione finally lifts her cup and takes a sip of the tea, then smooths down her dress, composing herself before speaking again.

“I walked to the tree. All I could think was… it was such a lovely morning. Such a shame. There was a cart beneath the tree, and I climbed atop it, and I stood there. I felt the coarse rope fall over my collarbones. And then the noose drew a little tighter. Not unbearably tight. It fit quite snugly around my neck. It felt itchy, and warm from the sunlight. I looked over the view, and in a moment I saw them all. The faces in the woods. Staring at me. Watching silently. Waiting for the cart to be pulled away. All those faces...”

She falls silent, then lifts her cup and swiftly finishes the rest of her tea.

“I woke up beneath the tree. A terrible dream, I told myself. A terrible dream. I left, and tried to avoid the Amber Suite as much as possible.” After a moment, Hermione summons a brisk smile. “Well. I’m sure it’s not the slightest bit helpful anyway, but… now you know.”

“Now I know.”

He finishes his tea, and thanks her for her story, and returns to the castle, and the little song whispers in his head.

... _That I would turn a roving boy_

_And die upon the gallers tree..._

Draco goes to the notes on his father’s desk and flips through them. Three people had been hanged, he remembers Harry saying. And none of them Malfoys. He finds the page at last, reading the names. _Robert Longbottom, Walter Weasley, Jane Lupin. Charged with treason and hanged for their crimes._

The Reader finally has a name.

Draco looks up from his father’s desk just in time to see Dumbledore reaching for him.

* * *

Draco sits up.

All is dark. His arms feel heavy; he tries to reach out and hears the clink of a chain. His hands are shackled together.

Someone is next to him, crying. A child, he thinks, sobbing quietly, and he reaches out blindly to touch them, awkwardly moving his hands together. He feels the hem of a dress, rough with dirt, and then the child speaks and he realises they’re a young woman.

“I don’t want to die.”

“You won’t die,” Draco says, because she sounds so young. How could she die?

“I will. Don’t deceive me. I’m going to die on the gallers tree...”

“Hush, now,” a voice says from Draco’s right. It’s a man’s voice, deep and slightly too loud, and it echoes just once in the darkness.

The sobbing starts again. “I don’t want to die. What about my sweetheart? We were going to marry in spring. I don’t want to die. I’m seventeen. I was supposed to grow old, I was supposed to live...I never got to see the sea. I want to see it.”

“You will,” Draco begins, but the other voice shushes him again.

“Don’t give poor Jane false hope. It’s cruel.”

Draco falls silent.

He waits. These moments never last long, and yet this one feels like an eternity. Something is supposed to happen. Something is supposed to change.

But he just waits. And waits.

The floor is hard and cold. The air is stale. The girl — Jane Lupin, the Reader, Draco suspects — sometimes falls silent, sometimes begins crying again. On Draco’s other side, the man quietly prays.

And they wait.

Draco tries to move around, but the darkness is so deep that it’s difficult. He finds solid walls of packed earth, and his heart sinks.

He’s yet again in the cellar.

He finds the staircase and climbs it painfully slowly, trying to keep his balance despite his bound hands. The door is locked, and somewhere below him, in the dark, the man calls out.

“Come and rest, Longbottom. There’s no point trying to flee. You’ll only die tired. Come and pray with me.”

“There must be a way out.” There _must_ be, Draco thinks. Dumbledore wouldn’t send him to die in a cellar.

And yet, it seems he has.

Draco circles the cellar again and again before he finally slumps against the wall, back where he started. He can tell from the whispered prayers of the man and the muffled sobs of Jane.

At some point, a dull light appears beneath the door, and Jane gasps and breaks into fresh sobs.

“Dawn is here,” she says brokenly. “I’ll never see my Thomas again. I’ll never see the sea...”

Draco startles when a hand finds his. It’s rough and calloused; it’s a hand that has done years and years of hard toil.

“We’ll die with honour,” the man says. “The Lord above knows we are not guilty of such crimes. He will greet us, and He will welcome us into his kingdom. He knows our innocence. We will walk tall, ready to face our end.”

Jane sobs and sobs. “I _can’t_ ,” she says. “They’ll have to carry me. I can’t. I _can’t_. Oh, _how_ could they have blamed me? I put the messages in the books, that’s all I ever did — I can’t even read, I didn’t _know_ what they were planning, I _never_ thought — oh, I can’t do it, I _can’t_ — I tried to _help_ John find the people who planned it, I _did_ , I gave him all the notes and I thought he was going to help me — ”

The man squeezes Draco’s hand, then says to Jane, “Pretend it’s something else. What’s your happiest memory?”

There’s a long pause, then Jane says hesitantly, “Last summer. My Thomas took me on a picnic...”

“Think of that,” the man says. “Think of that instead. Pretend you’re walking into the woods for a picnic with your Thomas. He’ll be at the end, smiling at you. Waiting for you to come join him.”

“I can’t, I _can’t_ ,” Jane says, but after a while her sobs subside and she falls silent.

“Tell me about the day,” Draco says suddenly.

There’s a pause, then Jane says hesitantly, “It was beautiful. The sky was so clear. You never get it proper clear, but it was. Blue as my Thomas’s eyes. He’d begged and begged the cook to give him something nice. Said it was my birthday. Fresh milk, and bread soft as down. We spread a bit of linen over the grass, up on the hill where we could see all across the forests and fields...”

Two shadows appear on the other side of the door, blocking the light momentarily, and then there’s the sound of clinking keys. Jane lets out a little sob.

“Think of that day,” the man says quickly. “Think of that instead. You can do it. Come on, on your feet. Walk in the middle of me and Longbottom, so if you feel faint you can lean on us.”

The door opens, and light streams down into the cellar. Draco recoils, turning his face away from the brightness, and then someone shouts, “Come on! Get out.”

They file slowly to the door. Draco can see his companions clearly now: the man is tall and thin, looking a little underfed, with hair that reminds him too much of the Weasleys. Walter Weasley, he recalls. Jane is familiar now, young and dark-eyed.

He half-expects a jeering crowd, but the kitchen is empty. There’s a horse-cart by the courtyard door, and they awkwardly climb into it. Jane’s eyes are wide and full of terror. Walter takes her hand as a rider mounts the horse and spurs it onward; two other riders gallop ahead on fine horses.

“Off to see your Thomas, remember?” Walter says, and nudges Draco. “Right?”

“That’s right,” Draco says, though he feels sick in his stomach now. “It’s a summer’s day, with the sky...the sky as blue as his eyes...”

The cart bumps over furrows and through the grass. Jane stares ahead, her breathing quick and shallow.

“A picnic,” she whispers. “A picnic. With bread, and butter, and apples sweet as honey...it’s a summer’s day...it’s a summer’s day...”

The hill comes into sight. There’s a great oak tree upon it, and the girl gasps and turns her face away.

“It’s Thomas,” Walter tells her. “Thomas, waiting for you. Just pretend.”

But there is no Thomas. Only a tree with three nooses hanging from a single broad branch. And they’ll all put their heads through those nooses, Draco thinks, and wait for the cart to be pulled away from beneath them. Jane will have to stand on her tip-toes.

He glances out across the hill, and sees them all. All the people standing there, watching silently. Just like Hermione said.

They’re waiting too.

“I see him,” Jane whispers. “I see my sweetheart waiting for me.”

Eyes as blue as the sky, Draco thinks. Blue as the sky.

Then it all vanishes, and he’s standing once more in his father’s study.

* * *

He goes to the Amber Suite. He doesn’t know why, but that’s where he goes. He plans to do something, _say_ something — that poor girl, he thinks, and the men too, hanged for crimes orchestrated by others, framed by Draco’s devious ancestors — but when he gets there, it seems odd. Different, somehow.

There’s footsteps, and then Ron clatters into the room, dragging a mop and bucket behind him. “Oh hello,” he says, and then pauses and looks around. Several expressions flicker across his face, and then he says in a disbelieving voice, “She’s gone.”

”What?”

”The Reader! She’s _gone_. Just like the Mother and Scorpius. Gone!”

There’s more footsteps, and then Mrs Weasley arrives with the tea-service, rather breathless, her apron askew. “Ron! Have you been up the stairs, near the first landing? He’s gone!”

”What?”

”The icy spot! The Hanged Man! He’s _gone!_ Every time, like clockwork, when I walk up those stairs — but this time, nothing!” She pauses and notices Draco, then peers at him. “What on _earth_ did you do?”

”Nothing,” Draco says.

”They don’t just _vanish!_ It’s the most peculiar thing...” Mrs Weasley puts a teacup on a nearby side-table and pats her hair. “Not that I’m complaining, always gave me such a _shock_ every time, but...well, who knows. This castle...I’ll leave the sugar cubes there, dear.”

Ron doesn’t say anything, but he watches Draco shrewdly and waits for his mother to leave before asking, “You didn’t do anything?”

”Nothing,” Draco repeats.

It’s true, he thinks. He didn’t do anything. Only learned their stories, and their names, and their innocence. 

Perhaps that’s all they ever wanted.

Ron silently departs. Draco sits in the chair by the window, and looks at the small hill in the distance.

Eyes as blue as a summer sky, he thinks. 

Blue as the sky.

* * *

_The Bloodlines of the Malfoy Family_ become Draco’s well-thumbed bible over the next few days. He keeps returning to the page of his sixth-great grandfather. John Malfoy, of the Malfoy sept. Married into the McErler clan, and somehow gained control of the castle and its occupants after the untimely death of the McErler family elders. The estate had held the title of McErler Castle for nearly five hundred years, but by 1755 — just a decade after William’s death — it became Malfoy Castle. Draco turns the pages, finding more and more surnames like _Yaxley_ and _Carrow_ populating the newly-named Malfoy Castle, and fewer _McErler_ and _Weasley_ names, until they were all but vanished. 

But as the Malfoy line grew stronger, Draco notices the castle residency grew weaker. John Malfoy died two months after the coup, of a very long bout of pneumonia, and Draco hopes he suffered. But John, unfortunately, also died surrounded by loyal septs, and favoured by the British crown in return for abruptly withdrawing support for the failed Jacobite uprisings. The castle should have been the jewel of his legacy; a point of pride. And yet the Malfoys tried to pass it along to other relatives like an unwanted, ugly heirloom. The Malfoys were so keen to distance themselves from the castle, it seems, that by 1900, Draco’s great-grandfather had the title changed to Agsworth Castle, named after the local village.

“All right?”

Draco glances up from the book. He’s sitting at his father’s desk in the master suite, notes scattered around him. “Just researching.”

Harry steps into the room. Outside, the light is beginning to fade. The days are lengthening now, meandering towards a long, warm summer. “Ron says the fog is coming up again tonight.”

“I expected that.” Draco closes the book and looks around the room.

He supposes he should clean it all up, he thinks. His father cannot remain in this suite forever, his clothes folded in the armoire, his papers in the desk, his half-read book on the bedside table. Draco looks at the book and thinks of how his father never finished it. He went to sleep one night, tucking the bookmark in, and turned off his lamp. Clothes folded, ready to wear tomorrow. 

Except tomorrow never came. 

A hand touches his shoulder, and Draco looks up.

_You’ve a lot weighing on your mind tonight. I can tell._

“He tried his best,” Harry says.

Draco glances away from the half-read book. “It wasn’t enough.”

“He tried. Collected all these notes, and he kept returning to that terrible Sapphire Suite, trying to figure it all out...”

“It’s not enough,” Draco repeats stubbornly. “I don’t forgive him. And neither should you.”

Harry tilts his head. “Forgive him for what?”

“For what he did. What he said to you. To us.”

“Ah,” Harry says, and perhaps subconsciously, he touches a hand to his collar. “Well. He wasn’t a pleasant man, I’ll admit, but — ”

“He was cruel.”

“He was trying to stop the deaths. He knew there was something in the river. He was trying to fix it.”

“Right, he suddenly decided to do something. After years and years of throwing stupid parties and drinking and smoking and just forgetting the entire mess. Well, it doesn’t make up for it. Not to me.”

Harry looks at him, then nods and says, “All right.”

There’s a noise in the distance, of an engine rumbling to life, and they both look to the window. 

“Nev’s taking Mrs Weasley home. Ron and Hermione have already left,” Harry says.

“Just us, then.”

“Yeah. Just us.” 

Outside, the fog begins to silently descend upon the land, wreathing the ghost-white birches and dark oaks.

* * *

They go to the kitchens for a supper of bread and cheese. The Sapphire Suite sits unspoken between them, until Draco at last speaks its name.

“Perhaps… while we’re both here...” He tries to draw on the remnants of his courage.

“Both of us? It doesn’t like two,” Harry says doubtfully. “Unlike the fog. I mean, every time I’ve showed up, it’s fled. I wonder if it’s part of the illusion. Perhaps it can only fool one person at a time. Only one way to find out, I suppose.”

“Is it cheating if I use a bit of liquid courage?”

“Not in the slightest,” Harry says solemnly.

They retire to the Ruby Suite with some crumbs and a bottle of Mrs Weasley’s sherry, because as Draco points out, it’s so horrid that they surely won’t be tempted to over-indulge.

“I kind of like it,” Harry says, taking a sip.

Draco grimaces at him. “You _are_ joking.”

“It’s quite sweet.”

“That’s _why_ it’s horrid. Tastes like someone decided to ruin a nice wine with a cup of sugar.”

Harry sculls the entire glass, just to annoy him, and Draco frowns.

“We mustn’t be foolish,” he says. “Like last time. Laughing and fooling about, thinking we were having a grand time. Right up until...” He trails off. Until they went skipping out the door, he thinks. Practically running to the embrace of the cold river.

Harry’s smile fades, and he puts his glass down. “Well. We don’t have to sit here in silence, either. Anyway, we know that trick now. And we’re not going to sit in our separate rooms. This… Illusionist. It can’t trick you with my voice or face if I’m with you.You’ll know. We’ll stick together.”

“Maybe we’ve already separated. Maybe you’re sitting here right now, talking to it.”

Harry thumps him hard on the shoulder, enough for Draco to spill his drink. “That’s not funny! Christ, you’re as bad as when we were eleven. Telling me all those stupid ghost stories and scaring the daylights out of me. Thought it was funny.”

“I’m just saying — I’m making a point. About how… how clever it is.”

Harry pours himself another glass. “Should’ve gone for the spiced rum. Something fortified.”

“What did you do for work? Back in Devonshire.”

“Are you making small talk? Is _this_ what we’ve come to? We’ve known each other since we were eleven, we’ve battled supernatural entities, nearly drowned in the river, and _this_ is what you’re doing? Sitting there on your fancy armchair, politely asking what I do for work — ”

“I’m trying not to talk about _them_. We’re not supposed to. I thought I should change the topic — ”

“What do _you_ do for work, then?”

Draco puts his nose in the air. “Bergère.”

“What?”

“A bergère. It’s not a fancy armchair, it’s a bergère..”

“Pass the bottle.”

“No,” Draco says meanly, and he takes a long swig from it.

“You know what we should do?”

“I’ve got some ideas.” The words come out far more flirtatious than Draco intended.

Harry reddens, but charges on valiantly. “Let’s just go down to the cellar.”

“Are you drunk already?”

“Put out the welcome mat. Pour a glass for our Sapphire Suite friend. Red or white wine, do you think?”

“Neither. Whiskey for him, I’d say. But that’s beside the point.”

“Well, _I’m_ going down there. We’ve got to see them at some point. We’re not trying to hide. We can’t stay here, cosy and safe in the Ruby Suite forever. Come on. Let’s go.”

“To the cellar?”

Harry shrugs. “I’d rather lead the way than cower in the corner.”

Draco hesitates. But Harry’s right, he knows. This is why he came back. He said it himself. Lucius believed that if he saw the true face of the Illusionist, everything would make sense. 

“I’m frightened,” he says, the words spoken plainly. Just a fact, said aloud.

Harry nods. “Me too.”

They look at each other, and then Draco takes another swig of the bottle and sets it down. “All right,” he says.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

They open the door and step into the hallway together. Draco stumbles slightly, and puts a hand out to steady himself on Harry.

Harry isn’t there.

Draco glances along the long hallway, then steps back into the room. Something feels wrong, he thinks. “Harry,” he begins, and then stops.

His mother is sitting on one of the armchairs, her hair perfectly styled and a silk scarf artfully draped around her neck, looking ill-matched for the tartan cosiness of the Ruby Suite. She’s dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

“Mother?” Draco asks uncertainly.

She lifts her gaze to him, her eyes red-rimmed. “With a boy, darling! A _boy_. What on _earth_ were you thinking?”

He’s eleven years old again, Draco realises. _That’s_ what feels wrong. It’s the wrong age, wrong height, wrong time. “Oh.”

”Have you nothing to say?” Narcissa dabs at her eyes again. “Oh, Draco. With a _boy_. Your father is right, you must return at once to Gloucestershire.”

Draco backs away from her. A memory is rising, rising —

The cellar. Darkness.

”No,” Draco says, closing his eyes. “No, _no_ — ”

”I won’t accept any argument. You’ll catch the first train tomorrow morning. Oh, I could _die_ of shame...”

Crying in the dark, the smell of it, the metallic tang — 

“ _No!”_

But it’s too late.

The memory crashes over him.

* * *

He’s eleven years old and sitting on the bed in the Ruby Suite, his eyes sore from all the crying. His mother has just left the room after ordering him to pack his things. It’s not _fair._ He only got to kiss Harry once, just _once_ , and then his father had to ruin everything. His horrible father, shouting at him and terrifying Harry. He’ll _never_ get to see Harry again if he’s sent back to Gloucestershire tomorrow, he knows it.

It’s just not fair, he thinks resentfully. He _won’t_ go home. He’ll run away instead. Maybe he can live in that old treehouse in the woods. He can live there with Harry. Harry won’t mind, he’s always talking about how much he dislikes his mean relatives.

Draco’s mind is made up. He goes downstairs, searching the castle for his father. It’s after dinner and Draco should be in bed, but he’s too angry to care. He won’t sleep, he decides, until he finds his father and tells him that he’s _not_ leaving on that train tomorrow. It takes him a while to arrive in the kitchens, where he finds Lucius arguing with Mr Kreacher, the grumpy old cook.

“You _know_ the villagers, you saw the boy — how could you have _not_ realised it’s the Potter boy?”

“Who cares which boy is which? Not my business,” Mr Kreacher says, wiping a knife clean.

Lucius looks up and catches sight of Draco. “You’re dismissed,” he says abruptly to Mr Kreacher, who scowls and strides out of the kitchen. “Draco, you should be in bed — ”

“I’m _not_ leaving tomorrow, and you can’t make me.”

“Draco — ”

“I don’t care. I’m not leaving. I can’t help who I like, and — ”

“This is not about you and a boy, it’s about you and Harry _Potter_. You _lied_ to me. You said he was a Yaxley.”

“So what? It’s — ”

“He _cannot_ be on this property! He’s one of _them_ , he’s a McErler — ”

Some of Draco’s anger dissolves into confusion. “What’s a McErler?”

Lucius shakes his head, his lips a thin line. “It was a mistake to bring you here. I can see that now. It’s far too dangerous. You are leaving on that train tomorrow, and you will not come back.”

“That’s not fair! I’m going to run away! I’ll climb out the window tonight,” Draco adds, and — seeing fear flash across Lucius’s face — he continues, “I’ll run away and find Harry, and we’ll live by the river — ”

 _“You must never go to the river!”_ Lucius hits the kitchen counter with his fist.

Draco falls silent.

After a moment, Lucius exhales slowly. “There’s...dangers here. Things you don’t understand. I’m doing this for your own protection. And it’s...” He stops, the colour draining from his face, and then says, “Draco. Come to me.”

Draco follows his father’s gaze and looks over his shoulder, but sees no one. “What? No. I _told_ you, I’m leaving right now — ”

“Please. Come to me, quickly.” Lucius gestures as if trying to usher Draco behind him, to protect him from some invisible force.

“No! Why are you acting so funny? I’m going to tell Mother on you,” Draco says accusingly. He doesn’t know why, but Narcissa always hates it when Lucius ‘gets peculiar’, as she puts it.

“Draco. Please, you _must_ — ”

And then, as Lucius tries to sweep Draco aside, he suddenly tumbles over, as though he’s being pushed, and he brings Draco down with him.

Draco blinks, but the light doesn’t return. It’s completely dark. The castle must have lost electricity, he thinks, but no moonlight comes through the windows. It’s pitch black, and there’s a funny smell in the air, similar to the smell on Draco’s hands when he’s been counting his coins from the piggy bank. The floor feels all wrong too, like earth instead of smooth tiles.

“Father?” he whispers, feeling frightened.

“Draco? Oh, God, no, no, _no_...you weren’t supposed to come with me...” The voice doesn’t really sound like his father, but Draco thinks it _must_ be him.

“What? What’s going on?”

Draco feels his father’s hand on his arm. “Here,” Lucius whispers. “I’m just going to pick you up, all right?”

Lucius hasn’t picked him up in years, but Draco gingerly manages to put his arms around his father’s neck. All his anger has left him. He has only fear as Lucius carries him over to what feels like an upright barrel. Draco doesn’t remember the kitchen having a barrel in it. Where _are_ they?

“Now, just sit there for a minute,” Lucius says, and his voice is still very low and quiet. “I want you to keep your eyes closed, do you understand? Do not open them.”

“Okay.” Draco draws his knees up, afraid a monster might grab his ankles if he lets his feet dangle off the barrel.

He listens to his father’s footsteps fade. He walks up what sounds like a staircase, and Draco obediently shuts his eyes. Seconds later, he hears the door creak open.

“Alexander,” a man says coldly. “The coup was successful, no thanks whatsoever to you.You can come crawling out of your hiding spot like a little maggot. You were supposed to make sure James stayed in his room, until we were ready to deal with him. Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Lucius says. Draco keeps his eyes squeezed shut, though curiosity is beginning to tempt him otherwise. Why is this man calling his father ‘Alexander’? What’s the man doing in their house? Why does he sound so mean?

“You must. I _know_ you do. He’s the only heir, Alexander. He _will_ die. We’ll hunt him down and kill him like an animal if you don’t tell us where he is.”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

Draco hears a sudden rustling, and then a funny choking noise. “You do. You and James are close. I _know_ you are close. If you don’t find James yourself and give him a merciful death, I will spill all your disgusting little secrets and both you and James will suffer greatly, die miserable deaths, and your names will be disgraced. I’ve three other sons, Alexander. You are not irreplaceable. If you must be cut from our family, so be it. Sometimes the family tree grows diseased leaves, and we must sever them in order to grow.”

Lucius doesn’t reply, though Draco hears the odd choking noises continue for a bit. 

“Find your dear friend,” the man says, “and put him out of his misery. Or he’ll die a far crueler death at the hands of others.”

There’s the sound of someone falling to the ground, and then footsteps marching away. Draco waits. There’s a funny rattle behind him, in the darkness, and Draco hopes to hear his father’s voice. There’s another odd rattling noise, followed by a wheeze and a groan.

He can’t help it. He opens his eyes.

There’s light coming through the doorway. Not much, but enough to show the cellar. There’s a man, fair-haired, slumped on the floor near the doorway, wheezing, holding a hand to his throat. The stairs themselves are dark with blood; a thick metallic smell hangs in the air. Bodies are scattered across the cellar. Men and women lay sprawled on the earth, many with their throats cut from ear to ear. Draco can feel his stomach roiling. He catches sight of a middle-aged man, still alive, one hand clasped to his neck, blood still pumping from the open wound, trying to crawl towards Draco.

Draco opens his mouth and screams.

Then suddenly it’s all gone and Draco’s back in the kitchen. Lucius is holding him so close it almost hurts, and Draco sobs and sobs with terror, and as he eventually calms down he thinks his father will tell him, _I told you. I told you not to open your eyes._

But Lucius only holds him, and whispers, “I’m so sorry,” over and over, and the next day Draco catches the train back to Gloucestershire with not a single protest.

* * *

“You all right?”

Draco looks up. He’s standing in the Ruby Suite, and Harry’s in the doorway, frowning at him with a concerned look.

”We stepped into the hallway,” Harry says uncertainly. “To go to the cellar. At least, I _swore_ we did...I suppose you went back into this room for a moment...?”

Draco drops his gaze again. “I’m all right.”

Harry doesn’t seem to buy it. He pauses, then comes back into the room. “We’ll leave the cellar,” he says. “For another time.”

“Another time.” Draco sits down on the nearest armchair. “Here, pour another drink.”

Harry does.

They stay up late and talk. Draco confesses his memories of the cellar, the memories he’d suppressed for so long. 

“That’s what you saw?” Harry asks, wide-eyed. “That’s awful...you were just a little kid.”

Draco says nothing. He looks at the childhood books lining the shelves. His books. His toys. Lucius had kept it exactly the same for all these years, ever since Draco left. Kept it all as it was.

_Your father misses you too much, Draco._

But Lucius’s dreams of a family at Agsworth had been dashed, and after just three months, Draco was on a train back to Gloucestershire along with his mother. Both sent away. Sent back to safety.

Harry touches his shoulder.

_ You’ve a lot weighing on your mind tonight. I can tell._

“I don’t understand,” Harry says. “If what you’ve told me is word for word, Lucius _must_ have known that James and Alexander were lovers. That man in the cellar wasn’t exactly being subtle.”

“That man — John Malfoy, I believe, Alexander’s father — also happened to be choking Father at the time. I doubt he was actually paying much attention to the words.” Draco touches his neck, feeling the memory of bruises. “I was there, too, and I think my father would have been rather preoccupied with keeping me safe. Rather unfortunate, as that seems to have been the key moment.”

“The key moment?”

“Of course. Alexander was given two choices — kill James himself, or let both of them die far more brutal deaths. What would you have chosen?”

“Neither,” Harry says.

“You have to pick one, Harry.”

“I don’t care. If it were me and you, I would’ve found another choice.” Harry shifts restlessly. “Couldn’t they have left together? Started a new life?”

“They didn’t. You saw the notes. James drowned right after the coup, and Alexander not long after. He killed James, then couldn’t live with it and drowned himself.”

“Well, maybe you can change that. The same way you changed Scorpius’s fate.”

“Maybe,” Draco says doubtfully. “James seems stubborn as a bloody ox.”

Harry’s lips quirk slightly. “Sounds like someone I know.”

“Yes, _you_. You’re definitely related to him.”

Harry laughs, and Draco can’t remember the last time he heard him do so. He’s been here too long, he thinks. It’s the castle, weighing on people’s hearts too heavy. When all this over, he thinks, he’ll take Harry to Gloucestershire. To the manor with the gold-foiled chairs and marble-topped Baroque tables, with murals of dusty-pink cherubs and powder-blue skies. He can show Harry where he grew up, in the light and airy rooms with the curtains of brocade and coloured silks. They’ll walk around the gardens and linger beneath the pergola heavy with tea-roses and climbing ivy, and kiss under the open sky. 

When all this is over.

* * *

Some time in the night, Draco wakes up. Harry is still there, sleeping soundly beside him, his face barely visible in the thin moonlight creeping between the curtains. He looks peaceful, Draco thinks. As though his dreams are nothing but good. 

Draco hopes so.

He reaches out, letting a curl of Harry’s hair catch between his fingers. Then he lets it fall away again, and rolls over to return to sleep.

There’s a dark figure standing beside the bed, and that’s all Draco has time to register before a hand reaches out and pushes him away through time.


	9. The River

Draco finds himself in the same moment he was last time. The McErlers freshly slaughtered, the Malfoys rising up to seize control. People smile at him as he hurries through the hallways, offering congratulations. He prays he doesn’t encounter Alexander’s father, the loathsome John Malfoy, and he’s grateful when he’s able to slip unnoticed from the castle. He races to the river — _our usual spot_ — his heart thundering like a horse, and there’s James, waiting for him, and such heavy grief is written upon his face that Draco can’t breathe for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he says, moving forward to offer condolences.

James backs away from him. “ _Cho fad ’sa bhios craobh ’sa choill’ bidh foill ’s a Malfoys.”_ he says.

Draco stops. “I didn’t do it,” he says.

“Of course you didn’t.”

“I _didn’t_. I wouldn’t — I _didn’t_ kill any of them. I hid, I stayed hidden — ”

James laughs bitterly, and the noise seems to dance alongside the river for a moment, caught on a breeze. “Of course you didn’t kill. A Malfoy never gets their own hands dirty. But I’m sure arrangements were made.”

“Not with my approval!” Draco thinks of the argument he’d overhead between Lucius and the other man. Alexander had defied his father and stayed hidden instead of barricading James somewhere. _Surely_ that meant something. “I swear, I didn’t want this — ”

“You _did_. How many times did you beg me to change my father’s mind, and withdraw support for the uprisings? You’re as cowardly as the rest of your kin.”

“You have to leave,” Draco says, reaching out to pull on James’s arm. “Now. You _have_ to. They’re going to find you, do you understand? And they’re going to kill you.”

“I don’t believe you,” James says, backing away from him, uncertainty in his face, and Draco lets go of his arm. “I can’t trust you any more. You wear so many faces, and none are your own.”

“You _must_. Please, you cannot stay. There is nothing for you here. Only death.”

“ _'S mi gun dàimh, gun ghaol, gun dìonadh_.” James turns away from him.

“That’s not true. But you cannot stay here. You must go.”

“Go where? This is my _home_. My castle. This is where I belong.”

Draco falls silent.

“I’m not leaving,” James says. “On my honour. Of which you seem to have none.”

“I have honour. This is why I am here, right now, risking it all to tell you — “ Draco pauses. The rush of the river seems to be getting louder and louder. “No,” he says, then — “No! _No!_ Give me more time, I _need_ more time — ”

But James has vanished.

The river swirls around Draco’s knees, sending him stumbling forward. The water runs icy over his skin, and the pebbles bruise the soles of his feet. He keeps his balance though, wading through the river. He can already feel the damp air sticking in his throat, the remnants of the night. Dawn is arriving, and the fog is fleeing.

“Damn it!” he shouts at the grey sky. “Damn _you_ , James! Why won’t you _listen_...” He trails off into a violent shiver. The river’s chill runs deep, and bites his bones. Draco turns and wades ashore, making his way back to the castle, where he finds Harry pacing by the fireplace.

”Where were you? I woke up and you were gone — Christ, were you in the river?”

“He’s the Illusionist,” Draco says with exhaustion, dropping into the nearest armchair with not the slightest heed to the river water now soaking into the upholstery.

”Were you in the _river?”_

Draco waves a hand at him. “Not important.”

“Er, it’s sort of incredibly — ”

“Alexander. He’s the Illusionist. Got many faces, never wears his own. That’s what James said.”

”You saw James? Did you — ”

”No,” Draco says wearily, anticipating the question. “Not in the slightest. As far as James is concerned, Alexander plotted to murder his entire family.”

Harry goes quiet. “That’s...heavy.”

Draco leans back in the armchair, letting the warmth of the fire wash over him. “I think,” he says, “that Alexander doesn’t want to show his true face. Too ashamed of what he did.”

“He didn’t kill James,” Harry says stubbornly, and Draco opens his eyes.

“Got a signed affidavit from Alexander, have you?”

“He _didn’t_. I just know he didn’t. He wouldn’t do that.”

“He didn’t have a _choice_. He could kill James himself or let them both get killed at the hands of their enemies.”

“You’re being a pessimist,” Harry retorts.

“I’m clever. You’re foolish.”

“Right. _I’m_ the naive one. _You’re_ the one jumping through time over and over again, hoping to change the course of history and thinking you’ve got the power to right every wrong.”

Draco looks at him.

After a moment, Harry mutters, “Sorry.”

“No, you’ve got a point.”

“Draco — ”

“You’re right. Thinking I can change it all. I can’t, can I?”

“I’d better see to the kitchen hearth. Mrs Weasley will be here soon.” Harry stands.

Draco lets him go. He stares into the fireplace, watching the flames flicker and dance, running through the conversation over and over.

He must fix this.

He _must_.

* * *

The fog rolls in that night. Like the ocean, Draco thinks. Over and over. Rolling over the trees, the earth, the rivers and creeks. When the tide recedes, what does it leave?

He watches it from the master suite, then turns away from the window.

His father’s room is scattered with notes. All the notes Draco’s uncovered. The Reader. The Illusionist. The Clock-Winder. The Lovers.

It’s here, in this room, that Draco was transported to the time where wretched Jane Lupin was taken to her unjust death. If that was the event Lucius also saw often, Draco can’t fault him for spending so long investigating the Reader as one of the Lovers. She had her beloved Thomas, after all. It would make sense, at first glance.

Draco collects the notes slowly and sets them into a pile on the desk. Even the master suite has such little trace of his father. The suits in the closet, professional and impersonal. The notes and books, all about the castle and its inhabitants. There’s so little of Lucius. Draco thinks of his mother’s fine clothes, soft and lovely. Her jewellery, each piece lovingly selected. Her perfume, light and floral as a spring garden.

But Lucius...it feels as though there’s nothing left. As though the castle erased him, somehow.

_ Lucius became obsessed. And then I found him, by the river._

“The others are leaving.”

Draco glances to the doorway. Harry stands there, half-hidden in the dim light of dusk.

“Ah.”

Harry steps into the room. “I heard it,” he says.

“You heard it?”

“Whatever’s in the Sapphire Suite. It called out to me as I went past, just now. It called out in your voice.”

Draco goes to the window, drawing the curtains against the cold nightfall. “It does that. To lure you in.”

Harry hesitates, and then says, “And when you see it, it has  my voice and wears my face?”

“It gets inside your head,” Draco says, crossing the room to join Harry in the doorway. “Finds your worst fears. Not spiders or snakes or needles. Something _worse_. All the things you secretly believe about yourself. The things that you’re ashamed of. I see the face of my mother, telling me I’m a disappointment. Telling me I’m worthless.” The memory returns to him in bits and pieces. The Sapphire Suite. A face ill-fitted. Yellowing piano keys. A drooping mouth.

“And that’s what you’re ashamed of? Being a disappointment to your parents?”

“Stupid, isn’t it?” Draco says lightly, but Harry doesn’t smile.

“My parents were brilliant, you know,” he says instead. “They both studied at St Andrews — that’s where they met. Everyone I know, everyone I speak to, loved them. Everyone says they were so kind, and smart, and funny, and generous. I know it’s _supposed_ to make me happy, and I _should_ be, but...” He shrugs again. “How am I supposed to compare to them?”

“Well,” Draco says, thinking of his own parents. “Comparison requires you to find similarities. So...I certainly have my father’s temper.”

“I’ve got my father’s hair,” Harry says wryly.

“I can raise my eyebrow in the exact same manner as my mother,” Draco says, and he demonstrates.

“God, so _that’s_ where you got that from. Right, well...my aunt says my father was an utter moron when he was a kid, so I suppose I’ve got that in common with him.”

“My mother wore beautiful silk scarves. I loved them too. Wanted to wear them, but I couldn’t. So we both love scarves, I suppose.”

“Why couldn’t you wear them?” Harry asks, looking puzzled.

“What? Well, they’re...I mean, they’re very feminine, so...” Draco trails off. Harry’s still looking puzzled. “And if anyone saw me, I’d never hear the end of it. And...” And his father would have been mortified, he thinks. Or at least, Draco used to believe that. Now he wonders.

“Well, let’s go find one, then,” Harry announces.

“What, right now?”

“Yes,” Harry says firmly.

Draco looks at him, expecting a punchline. When there’s none, he says, “All right.”

They go downstairs, and search hallway credenzas and the dressers of the suites. The Amber Suite is their best bet, Harry announces, but they only find cupboards full of linen. The Ruby Suite is next, but when Draco opens the wardrobe, he finds his old clothes, from the single summer he spent there. All the little child-sized shirts and trousers and coats.

“He never cleaned it out,” Draco says with surprise.

“What?”

“After I left. I thought....” He holds up the small clothing, then looks over the bookcase. “Father kept it all,” he says at last. “Kept it all as it was...”

_ Your father misses you too much, Draco. He hopes that perhaps you can spend time at Agsworth with him..._

But Lucius’s dreams had been dashed, and after just three months, Draco was on a train back to Gloucestershire along with his mother. Both sent away. Sent back to safety.

Harry touches his shoulder.

_ You’ve a lot weighing on your mind tonight. I can tell._

“If we’re still comparing things,” Harry says, “then that’s something _we’ve_ got in common. We’re both trying to win the approval of parents long gone.”

Draco looks up from the clothes, catching Harry’s eye, and after a moment, he returns Harry’s smile, laced with sadness. “We’ve got other things in common,” he says. “We both spent a summer here.”

“We both like the colour green.”

“Both spent our childhood in the countryside.”

“Both liked walking by the river.”

The river.

Draco suddenly remembers where he is, and he turns away from the wardrobe. “We’re both chasing ghosts,” he says.

Harry’s smile fades. He glances over his shoulder, at the window, even though the curtains are drawn over it, and shivers.

“Let’s keep looking,” he says, and he turns away to busy himself with the drawers of an escritoire. He rifles through paper and inkwells, then shuts the drawer. After a pause, he looks under the desk.

“Don’t think you’ll find a silk scarf under there,” Draco says helpfully.

“Checking the skirting board. Just remembered, I never managed to get those initials off properly.”

“What initials?”

“I _was_ going to finish the job,” Harry says a tad defensively. “Only you came in here and asked me peculiar questions about meeting me in the Great Hall. Then you criticised me for the way I was fixing the initials.”

Draco searches his memories. “You said they were scratches.”

Harry shrugs. “Scratches, initials. Anyway, we put them there. Don’t you remember? When we were kids. We thought it would be a fun idea, and then I got a bit panicked and thought your mother might get a bit cross. So we moved the escritoire just a bit to the left.”

“I don’t remember this.”

“You don’t remember a lot of things.”

Draco pushes on the escritoire, moving it slightly to the right, and crouches down.

Harry’s right. There’s two sets of initials carved into the skirting board.

_H.P_ and _A.M._

“A.M?” Draco mutters.

“Nah. Says D.M.”

“That’s an A.”

Harry crouches beside him and reaches out, tracing the letters. “Well, that’s what I said, after you carved it. I asked why you carved an A, and you stopped and asked what your name was.” He shrugs. “I thought you were trying to be funny or something. Although...”

“Although,” Draco says quietly, “you perhaps wondered if it hadn’t happened again. If I wasn’t _your_ Draco again.”

Harry looks at him, then away. “That’s when you told me to find you,” he says. “That time you were in the river, and Nev and Ron found you. Fifteen years ago, you told me something bad would happen in the river, and I had to come to the castle and get everyone to search for you. You wrote down the exact date. The exact time. And made me promise never to forget.”

Draco looks at the initials. _A.M._

He should have realised. All those times, those moments when he was living through Alexander...then where was Alexander’s consciousness? It had to go  _ somewhere _ . That’s why Draco has so many blank spots for that summer. So many missed moments. So many absent memories.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry, Harry. It must have been terrifying. You were just a kid, you had no idea what was happening when I — when I — when I went away — ”

Harry’s staring at the initials, the realisation finally sinking into his expression.

“I’m sorry,” Draco repeats, and he’s frightened now, that Harry will scramble away from him, and look at him with horror.

But Harry just keeps looking at the initials, and then after a moment he says, “Draco.”

“Yes?”

Harry finally looks at him then, and he says, “It’s all right.”

Draco doesn’t know why, but there’s a lump forming in his throat, and his vision blurs a bit, but then Harry’s there, hugging him tightly, pressing Draco’s face into his shoulder. 

“It’s okay,” Harry says. “It’s okay.”

They stay like that for a long time, neither of them moving.

* * *

That night, as Harry sleeps in Draco’s arms, the Clock-Winder arrives again.

And Draco greets him almost wearily, as one would an old beggar coming to his door, holding out an empty bowl with a trembling hand.

* * *

Draco is unsurprised to find himself in the same slice of time, moments after the coup. He goes to the river, and finds James waiting.

“ _Cho fad ’sa bhios craobh ’sa choill’ bidh foill ’s a Malfoys_.”

“I’m sorry.”

James turns away from him. “All dead,” he says. “My family. By the hand of yours.”

“I’m sorry. I truly am. But you _must_ leave, James. You can’t stay. I know this is your home, your castle — ”

“Leave me be.”

“You _have_ to leave. My father — ”

“Your father,” James repeats bitterly.

“He’s ordered me to kill you. This is why I’m here now, begging you to flee — ”

“ _Cha teich ach cladhaire_.”

Draco stares at James’s turned back, defeat creeping around his heart. “ _Led thoil_.”

James doesn’t reply.

And then Draco’s standing alone in the woods, the river rushing onwards and onwards beside him.

* * *

He tries again the next night, when the Clock-Winder arrives again. And the next night, and the next.

He begs James to leave. He offers him silver, he offers him gold. He offers to steal the finest steed in the stables for James to flee upon. He offers to leave with James, and begin a new life elsewhere.

“Oh, so we’ll draw even more attention to ourselves? Don’t be stupid,” James says cuttingly. “Anyway, I won’t leave my home.”

With each visit to James’s time, hope dies a little more. James won’t flee, Draco thinks desperately. He wants to die an honourable death, even if that means returning to the castle to confront his enemies. Even if it means a fate worse than death. 

He doesn’t know how to fix this.

* * *

One evening, as they’re playing chess in the parlour, Harry suggests going to the cellar again, in that usual foolhardy way of his. 

“I don’t know,” Draco says doubtfully. He’s been so distracted with the Lovers lately that he hasn’t given much thought to the Illusionist.

“Why not? You seemed keen on the idea earlier.”

Draco shrugs and moves his rook. “I don’t know. My father was wrong about The Lovers, maybe he’s wrong about other things.”

“But maybe there’s something down there, in the cellar. Maybe the Illusionist is trying to show us something. Something important.” Harry takes the rook out with a knight, toppling it over. The rook rolls across the board.

“I’ve seen what’s in the cellar.” Draco gives an involuntary shiver. The blood, he thinks, the flesh carved open, the gasp of a death rattle.

Harry studies the board, considering his next move. Draco stares down at the fallen rook, trying to get the images out of his head. Why would the Illusionist want to show him the cellar? 

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks with concern. “Draco? You’ve gone all pale...”

“The Illusionist isn’t Alexander.”

“What? Then who — ”

“Who would lure people to a cellar? Who would tell them lies? Who would wear a different face for each person? The face of a friend, a loved one...”

“I...I don’t know...”

“He did it centuries ago, Harry. Luring them down to the cellar, pretending to be their friend. And then ordering their massacre.”

Harry stares at him, looking nauseated. “John Malfoy.”

“He killed my father. He convinced my father that _he_ was the key, that _he_ needed to be followed, investigated...”

“No, that can’t be...your father was found by the river...”

“I _know_ he killed my father,” Draco says grimly. “I _know_ he did it. I’ve just got to figure it out. I’m missing something...”

“Maybe,” Harry says, staring unseeingly at the table, “maybe the Lovers aren’t the ones luring people to the river. Maybe the Lovers are trying to _protect_ people.”

And _that’s_ the missing piece. Draco stands up so quickly he nearly upends the chessboard. “She _told_ me. God, how could I have _missed_ it — ”

”Who? Told you what?”

”Jane. The Reader. She said she gave all her notes to John. All the messages she was supposed to pass along. He would’ve seen it. Seen their message. _Meet me by the river._ ”

Harry’s look of confusion sinks into despair. “So he forged a note...”

”And when Alexander saw it, he went to the river to meet James. John followed him and discovered where James was hiding. He took his time,” Draco adds, thinking of the treacherous John. “He wouldn’t attack both of them, that’s too risky. He waited for Alexander to leave, then killed James. Managed to kill Alexander too, a few days later. Drowned them both in the river. That’s probably how he caught pneumonia.”

The parlour door creaks open. They both glance over at it, and then Draco steps toward it.

“Draco,” Harry says, looking unsettled.

“It’s fine,” Draco closes the door again. “We’ll talk about something else — ”

And then he turns back around, and sees the Clock-Winder standing there, a hand already outstretched.

And Draco tumbles into darkness.

* * *

The river, the river. 

Always the river.

Draco stares into James’s face, and it all seems so hopeless. Why, _why_ does Dumbledore keep sending him back here? _Why?_ He can do nothing to change James’s mind. He waits, he waits for,  _ Cho fad ’sa bhios craobh ’sa choill’ bidh foill ’s a Malfoys. _

But instead, James smiles and says with amusement, “You all right? Thought it was a wild grice crashing through the forest.”

Draco’s heart misses a beat. He looks overhead, at the glittering stars and full moon.

This conversation happened before the coup.

“James,” Draco says, and James gives him a soft look.

“Kept me waiting again.”

“I...I was talking to someone.”

James’s smile fades. “Let me guess. Your father.”

“Yes.”

James makes an annoyed noise. “We’re not talking about this again. I stand by my father’s decision. It’s the _right_ decision. To honour the loyalties of our forefathers, and stand together to — ”

“He’s going to betray you all.”

James looks at him, his expression shocked. “What?”

“He’s planning to betray you. Your whole family. He’s secretly gathering support from other septs. When the time is right, he’s going to arrange for your family to be gathered in the cellar and slaughtered.”

James backs away from him, his eyes wide. “No. No, he’d _never_ — he’s a bully, your father, always trying to get his own way, but he’d _never_ do that — he’s my father’s _friend_ — ”

“He’s orchestrating it right now, as we speak.”

“I don’t believe you,” James says, but Draco can see the uncertainty in his eyes.

“Do you think we’re the only ones who have taken advantage of Jane’s illiteracy? No; there are other messages she passes along. Far more malicious ones.”

James says nothing for a long moment. When he speaks, he does so quietly, though they are alone. “If this is true — ”

“It is.”

“Your father will be hanged for treason.”

“So be it.”

James looks at him a moment longer, then says, “Leave this with me.”

The air around them is beginning to shift, but it doesn’t matter now. He _did_ it, Draco thinks with relief and joy. He did it, he changed _everything_ , he made it _right_.

He changed history.

The night brightens too quickly into daylight. The landscape shifts around Draco. He can hear a car in the distance. He’s here now, he thinks with crumbling relief. He’s _here_ , back home... He wants to cry with relief. He wants to see Harry’s face.

Draco begins the long walk back to the castle. Through the forests, he thinks, and to the fields...

Only there are no fields.

He keeps walking through the overgrown woods, climbing over fallen trees and getting tangled in brambles, but he tries to focus on getting home. He fixed it. He finally fixed it. He pictures the look on Harry’s face. The smile. That smile, the one Draco fell in love with. He’ll be so happy. 

Draco should have reached the castle by now. He pauses, looking around, and then steps forward, stumbling over a brick. Draco looks at it, then finally starts looking at his surroundings. 

There’s other bricks. One or two, lying in the grass. Sometimes a few still stacked up, a nod to the wall that once stood there.

“Harry?”

A flock of birds rises in the distance. Draco steps forward, his footfalls now heavy. He ducks between the trees and steps forward into a wide field. Here, the grass is trimmed short, and a few great and half-ruined walls rise to greet the bleak sky. There’s a sign, waist-height, sun-faded and scratched. Draco’s often seen signs like that, when he was a child and his mother dragged him off to heritage-listed sites for boring history lessons.

He walks slowly to the sign. 

_ McErler Castle was a stronghold of the McErler clan. Built in the early fourteenth century, it went through numerous rebuilds and was a significant defence point during several battles. It is believed to have originated as a hill fort in the early eleventh century, of which no trace remains, and... _

Draco turns away from the sign. There’s a gravel car park nearby, little more than a turning circle, and a single red car is parked there.A man gets out and waves to Draco.

“Ron?” Draco asks incredulously.

“Excuse me! Castle’s closed, mate! Viewing times are strictly between nine and five o’clock...” Ron trails off, looks behind him, then says, “Where’s your car?”

“Ron? It’s me, Draco.”

Ron doesn’t seem to hear him. He’s too busy hurrying over, a pamphlet in one hand, the other holding his hat down as a brisk breeze springs up. “Look, you can’t just hike up here, it’s really dangerous, especially for tourists. Had a couple last year who got lost in the woods and nearly died of the cold. This weather can change in a heartbeat, mate. Come on, you need to leave.”

“I...I don’t...where’s Hermione?”

Ron gives him a blank look. “Who?”

“What about Harry?”

“Er. You all right, mate?”

“Harry Potter. He lives in the village...maybe with his parents, Lily and James?”

Ron looks deeply mystified. “You sure? I know _everyone_ in the village, can’t say I’ve ever heard of those people. Well, I’ll give you a lift. Come on, that sun will be setting soon. S’pose you were doing a bit of tramping and got lost? Yeah, it happens.” He turns and walks back to his car.

“No.”

Ron stops. “What?”

“I’m staying here. I need to. I need to...I need to find someone.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that. Henry, you said.”

“Harry.”

“Well, you won’t find him here. Come on.”

Draco doesn’t move. “No, someone...someone else. I think...I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. I _need_ to fix this.”

Ron begins to look quite unsettled. “You all right?” he asks, retreating to the safety of his car. “You feeling all right? Not...planning to jump off those ruins or anything, are you?” He laughs uneasily.

“What? No, I just — there’s someone who I need to — I’ve messed up, I’ve _really_ messed up, oh God I’ve _messed up_ — ” Draco feels as though he might be sick.

“Er...is there someone I can call? Someone to come and get you? Look, mate, I can’t just leave you here, there’s going to be a frost tonight — ”

Draco cups his hands around his mouth. “Dumbledore!” He _must_ be here, Dumbledore _must_ still exist, or —

“Look, mate — ”

“ _Dumbledore!_ I _need_ to go back, I need to _change_ this!”

Ron fumbles with the handle of his car door. “Listen, I’m just going to zip down to the village and let the sergeant know that you’re up here and might need a spot of help — ”

Draco hardly registers the slam of the car door and the engine rumbling to life. There’s a fence surrounding the ruins, high and lined with ugly barbed wire. Draco scales it after a few attempts; the wire bites deep into his palms, leaving blood trickling down his wrists in long, thin rivulets. He lands clumsily on the other side of the fence, twisting his ankle as he drops to the ground.

“Dumbledore!”

Silence. Draco gets to his feet, limping towards the castle ruins. Ron’s right; the temperatures are dropping. He shivers as he makes his way along the ruins.

There is nothing here. Here or there, a great wall rises into the sky like a craggy mountain. But of the castle, nothing else is left. No doors, no steps, no floors. He huddles behind a pile of lichen-covered bricks, trying to shelter from the bitter wind now sweeping through the field, trying to _think_.

But it’s hard to organise his thoughts. Harry is gone — or perhaps never existed. Ron doesn’t know him. Hermione and Neville aren’t here.

He thinks of James suddenly.

_ ’S mi gun dàimh, gun ghaol, gun dìonadh._

_ I am left friendless, unloved, unprotected. _

Draco lifts his head and gets to his feet. He returns to the wilderness, to the forests and brambles and thistles. The river is his only friend now, he thinks. The only thing still here. The only thing that perhaps remembers him.

He follows it for a long time. Night has fallen. He stumbles and falls over rocks and logs. The river rushes on beside him.

But there are no ghosts. No James, smiling to greet him. No lovers. Only the cold.

He keeps following the river. Perhaps he’s not as cold as he thought, for he eventually stops shivering. Overhead, the moon glows bright. Waxing or waning? He can’t remember which is which. The river...was he following it? He can’t remember. Just keep walking, he thinks. One foot in front of the other...

But even that becomes too difficult to manage. Draco finds himself slumped against a rock on the river bank. The river rushes over his feet. He watches it for a long time. Is he hot or cold? He can’t tell. Seems funny. He looks at his hands. They look like they’re covered in rust. Dried blood flakes away. He should get up, he thinks. He should get up.

But he’s too tired, and even thinking seems just too much.

He’ll have a little sleep, he thinks. Just a little sleep.

The last thing he sees before he drifts away is a pair of blue eyes gazing at him. 

* * *

Draco wakes.

He’s lying on the bed in the Ruby Suite. The sun is young and bright, and Harry is standing at the window, outlined in sunshine, a mug of coffee in one hand. Yesterday feels like a nightmare. It didn’t happen. Some sort of terrible dream.

“Summer’s nearly here,” Harry murmurs without looking over his shoulder. “It’s been nearly a year since you came to the castle.”

Draco sits up, propping himself up on his elbows. “Harry,” he says.

“Hm?” Harry’s still lost in his own thoughts.

“Harry,” Draco repeats, just for the pleasure of saying his name. Harry’s real, he’s here and he’s _real_.

Harry turns away from the window and frowns. “Draco, what’s wrong?”

“I changed it, Harry. I changed everything.”

“You did?” For a moment, Harry looks both amazed and overjoyed. “Draco, that’s — ”

“I messed _everything_ up.”

“But — you said — you said that you’d changed everything...”

“Everything. James and Alexander were saved, the betrayal never happened. The McErlers went off to war, to fight in the failed uprisings. I suppose that changed a million histories. Think of all the people who would have died at war. All the lives that would have changed. The castle existed only as a ruin. Ron never met Hermione. And you...you never existed.”

Harry looks at him, the emotions clear as they flash across his face: hope, shock, sorrow, and then finally disappointment.

“We can’t do it,” he says slowly, sinking onto the bed. He stares into the distance. “We can’t change anything.”

“It’s pointless. This whole time, trying to change things, trying to make it all different...I’ve been through time over and over again, Harry. I’m tired.”

Harry reaches out and takes Draco’s hand. “Then rest. Just for a while.”

Draco does.

He closes his eyes and drifts off, but his sleep is fitful. He catches snatches of moments and half-dreams. Harry walks along the river, eleven years old, humming a song. Scorpius runs ahead, vanishing from sight. The dule tree waits on the hill. Narcissa presses the old yellow keys of the piano. Harry turns to look at Draco, sadness in his eyes.

“You’re not _my_ Draco.”

He wakes suddenly. Harry’s beside him, touching his shoulder. “Draco? You were calling out in your sleep.”

“I’m all right.” He sits up, feeling disoriented. He licks his dry lips. The sun is high now, casting short shadows. “Did I sleep the whole morning?”

“Are you thirsty? Let’s go to the kitchen, we’ll get a glass of water.”

Draco gets up, placing his feet on the cool flagstones, and follows Harry down the stairs and hallways. The castle seems oddly quiet, and he wonders where everyone is. Mrs Weasley isn’t in the kitchen, and Draco frowns as he goes to the sink and fetches a glass, trying to figure out what’s wrong.

“Where is everyone?” he asks.

“In the cellar.”

Draco whips around, dropping his glass. It bounces once off the tiles, then shatters and sends glittering shards across the floor.

Harry smiles at Draco, his mouth curling into a long, dark grin. “You’re nearly there, Draco. Just a few more steps.”

“Where’s Harry?”

“I’m right here.”

“Where’s _my_ Harry?”

Harry looks at him. His grin only seems to grow. The skin around his eyes doesn’t seem to quite fit right, as though he’s wearing Harry’s face like a mask, peering through it. “Come down to the cellar.”

Draco looks at him. The glass glitters between them. He curls his toes, feeling the cold tiles against the soles of his feet.

There’s a banging noise from the buttery, and Draco realises someone’s knocking on the boarded-up door. Harry’s face contorts into a look of fury.

“Go _away_ , old man!”

The knocking only continues, getting louder and more insistent.

“Go _away_! Stop interfering! _”_

The knocking abruptly ends. Harry tilts his head, listening, then says to Draco, “Go to the cellar.”

Draco wavers, but he has no choice. The real Harry is down there. He needs Draco’s help.

Draco walks slowly, putting one foot in front of the other. He waits for a door to open, the phone to ring, _anything_ — but there’s nothing. He passes by the pantry, the buttery. The cellar steps are before him. He can smell a metallic tang in the air. The stairs are dark.

A hand rests on his shoulder, clammy and heavy like a waterlogged body. Draco tries not to recoil.

“Go on,” Harry whispers in his ear. “Go down there.”

Draco descends the steps. The metallic tang becomes the thick smell of blood.

“Go on.”

Draco reaches the final step. All he can see is darkness. He reaches out blindly.

Someone touches him, but the hand is warm, and calloused, and it’s _his_ Harry, and Draco holds on so tightly that he thinks he’ll break Harry’s fingers —

— and then a voice is screaming in fury behind him, and Draco glances over his shoulder to see the Clock-Winder reaching for him.

* * *

Draco opens his eyes.

He’s standing in a clearing. The river is babbling nearby. He looks up at the thin moon. Ah. It’s this again. The coup has just happened. He’s fled to the river, hoping to find his lover. James is standing opposite him, and Draco waits for,  _ Cho fad ’sa bhios craobh ’sa choill’ bidh foill ’s a Malfoys._

But there is nothing. James just stares at him.

“Are you all right?” Draco asks.

James gazes at him, then says tentatively, “Draco?”

Draco pauses. “Harry,” he says.

They both close the distance between them in seconds, and though Harry doesn’t speak, Draco can feel how tightly he clings, and the tremble in his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Draco says.

“I’m so stupid, I’m so — he wore your face, and it looked so _real_ , and he said he’d seen Ron leading the others into the cellar, only Ron had looked all _wrong_ — I’m so, so _stupid_ , I _believed_ him, I practically _ran_ down there — ”

“He’s clever,” Draco says. “He’s clever. It’s not your fault, Harry. I got tricked too.”

“What are we going to do? When we go back to our time, we’ll go straight back to the cellar, won’t we?”

“We’ll see what happens,” Draco says, though his heart sinks.

Harry steps back a little, and looks around. “The river,” he says with a shiver. “Well, here we are. Meet me by the river. I’m here, and...I suppose James is elsewhere.”

The Great Hall, Draco thinks. The first day he met Harry again, after so many years. He’d acted peculiar, and had seemingly vanished into thin air. Draco thinks he knows _exactly_ where James’s mind has travelled to.

And then he remembers what James said to him that day.

_Two together are stronger than apart._

_This_ was what he was always supposed to do. _This_ was why he failed in the past. He was never supposed to be alone. 

“What should we do?” Harry asks. 

Draco says, “We’ll go together. By the river.”

”But...it’s not that easy. It _can’t_ be.”

”It is. We don’t have to stop a war, or switch allegiances, or change minds.”

”But...”

”You said once that perhaps Scorpius was a test. Do you know how I saved him?”

Harry shakes his head.

”I walked forward.”

Harry gazes at him, then hesitantly holds out his hand.

Draco takes it.

They follow the river together. One descendant of the McErlers, one descendant of the Malfoys. Onwards into the woods, holding their hands. Just as they once did, as children. On and on. Over the soft heath, past the ghost-white birches. The river murmurs beside them. The moonlight shimmers on the water.

_Just around the next bend._

The stars shine overhead. The air is cold. Their path is clear.

They keep walking.

The scent of crushed grass and heather rises from their footsteps. An owl flutters through the trees ahead, spreading pale wings. Harry squeezes Draco’s hand. 

_ Just around the next bend. _

They walk, and walk, and Draco begins to see things. All the little histories, all the things that once were, and all the things yet to be. The faded pasts and translucent futures of the river. He sees a little boy in a woollen coat, crouching by the river with a paper boat in one hand, and when he looks again, the boy has grown into an old man. 

_Just around the next bend._

Harry squeezes his hand again, this time painfully tight, and Draco sees two people standing by the river. A man who undeniably resembles Harry, and a woman with bright eyes. They both smile at Harry and Draco, and for a moment Harry’s footsteps falter.

But he keeps walking, and the ghosts fade as he passes by.

_Just around the next bend._

A freckled youth waves at them, an unmistakable Weasley look to him. He too fades, and is replaced by another man.

This time, it’s Draco who falters, but then he feels Harry’s hand in his, and he takes another step forward. His vision blurs slightly as his father gazes at him. Lucius stands tall, both hands clasped atop his silver cane, but his stern expression softens as Draco walks past.

_Just around the next bend._

The river is widening now, becoming fast and wild, and the trees are thinning out, and a great meadow opens up before them, silver under the starlight.

And then the air begins to change, and Draco tightens his grip on Harry’s hand.

He closes his eyes and steels himself.


	10. Epilogue

It’s a bright summer day when Draco signs the papers.

The sky is sapphire blue. Hermione, Ron, and Neville stand silently in the study, with an air of reverence around them. Harry sits on one side of the desk, Draco on the other, and Mr Binns stands there still looking completely baffled.

“This has caused me quite the headache, Mr Malfoy,” he says with a hint of reproach. “All the paperwork...all the phone calls — ”

“Well, that’s why I pay you.”

Mr Binns subsides. He clears his throat dryly, then hesitantly puts the paperwork down next to Harry. “Mr Malfoy has already signed all his papers, Mr Potter...now, if you’ll just sign here, and here...initial there, please...”

Harry picks up the fountain pen; Draco doesn’t miss the tremble in his hands.

“It’s all right,” Draco says.

“Sorry. I just...I don’t know why I’m nervous, it’s only...”

“Are you sure, Mr Malfoy?” Mr Binns blurts out, as though he’s been spending the entire afternoon trying very hard not to say those exact words.

“Perfectly.”

Harry gives Draco a nervous smile, then signs the paper. He turns it over, and signs it again.

“And this one, Mr Potter,” Mr Binns says, handing him another form. “And there...and lastly, right here.”

Harry signs the last one, and he lets the nib rest on the paper for the last signature for a moment before lifting it. Everyone seems to exhale, and then Mr Binns picks up the papers and neatly puts them into his folder.

“Well. The ownership of the castle and property has now been transferred to you, Mr Potter.”

Hermione gasps loudly; they all turn to look at her, and she turns red. “Sorry.”

“I mean, we knew this was happening,” Ron says. “Draco’s been sorting it out for months. Why are you shocked?”

“I’m not! I just — ”

“Did you think I’d back out?” Draco asks, and Hermione reddens more.

“No! Oh, stop it,” she adds as Ron starts snickering. “You’ve ruined the moment now, all of you — ”

“It’s not ruined,” Neville says. “Come on. Let’s all go down to the inn and have a drink.”

“We’ll join you later,” Harry says, tilting his head towards Draco.

“I bet you will,” Ron says; Hermione elbows him. “What? _What?_ I only said — ”

“We all heard you, Ronald.” Hermione turns away. “Come on, then. Let’s go.”

They file from the room. Mr Binns picks up his hat and puts it on. “Well. Best of luck, Mr Malfoy. Mr Potter,” he adds, and then doffs his hat and leaves.

“He thinks I’m mad,” Draco says, watching him leave.

Harry’s smiling. “ _I_ think you’re mad.”

They descend the stairs together. After nearly three hundred years, Draco thinks, the castle has finally been returned to a McErler descendant. Everything feels _right_ now. The castle feels like an old friend, pleased to see them. The Amber Suite sits empty, the books neatly shelved. The Sapphire Suite is silent. The Emerald Suite seems lighter now, the room somehow losing its peculiar underwater quality.

They walk by the front parlour, and the Great Hall. They walk through the open doors of the castle and down the front steps. The meadows awaits, and the fields, and the forests.

They visit the cemetery with a new gravestone set amongst the wild thyme and the wood sage, with two names carved upon it. They leave flowers on the graves of Scorpius and his mother. They listen to the bees humming by the wildflowers, and watch the dragonflies dance over the water.

And the river.

The river.

It greets them like an old friend. Like _two_ old friends, really. Draco and Harry walk along beside it, linked by their hands, and Draco likes to imagine he can see a near-identical couple walking ahead of them.

But he can’t, of course.

The ghosts of Agsworth Castle are finally laid to rest.


End file.
